Déjà Vous
by robot iconography
Summary: A rollicking honeymoon adventure. Thrills! Chills! Spills! Rick and Evelyn display to advantage their combined capacity as trouble magnets. Chapter 8 has arrived! Only 4 years in the making...
1. Je Suis Chaude

_**Déjà Vous**_

  


_Author's Notes: Just taking a bit of a break from Never Spellbound, but I didn't want to leave you with nothing from me in the interim, so, allow me to proudly present the first chapter of _Déjà Vous_ (which, loosely translated, means, "You again." The pun on _déjà vu_ is intentional, in case anyone was thinking of e-mailing me about my rather slipshod French translation. ;))_

  


_Thank you to PZB, who read over Chapter One for me, and who originally suggested the Mediterranean when I mentioned that I was searching for a honeymoon spot for our favourite fictional couple. I speak French rather better than I speak Italian, and considerably better than I speak Greek (which is to say, not at all) so I suppose the selection of country was rather arbitrary. The selection of destination, however, was not; if you ever get a chance to visit Nice, or any of the surrounding towns, by all means, take it. And don't do as I did, and lose your camera. ;)_

  


_When last seen, none of these characters were mine. That doesn't, however, prevent me from taking them from a non-profitable spin once in a while. Suing me would be counter-productive at best: the university has all my money, and Student Loans currently possesses the deed to my soul._

  


_Enjoy!_

  


  


**1. _Je Suis Chaude_**

  


Many women, it is true, would be thrilled beyond belief to find themselves honeymooning on the Côte d'Azur, especially in the early green and golden days of summer. Any girl became a ravishing bathing beauty on the French Riviera: the warm sun imparted a twinkle to every eye, and fostered a healthy glow in even the most pallid of complexions, while the fresh sea air tousled and tumbled locks, and made faces appealingly ruddy.

  


The seaside town of Nice, a stone's throw away from stately Monaco, was in full, riotous bloom when the O'Connells arrived. The sparkling, sapphirine blue of the Mediterranean, viewed from the antique elegance of the Promenade des Anglais, rivalled in beauty even the shimmering golden dawns of the Nubian desert. And now, strolling the Boulevard Jean-Medecin after a romantic dinner by candlelight, was the perfect opportunity for reflection, contemplation, or simply the enjoyment of another's company.

  


Evelyn Carnahan O'Connell wanted to go home.

  


"Honey, it wasn't that bad." Richard O'Connell stifled a smile as he hooked an arm around his wife's slender shoulders. They walked along the street with no particular goal, other than to get as far away as possible from the scene of Evelyn's recent humiliation. To that end, she was walking somewhat faster than Rick, and he employed the arm as a gentle--but effective--means of slowing her down. He'd just eaten, and wasn't particularly in the mood for a jog. "I don't think anyone even heard," he added, careful to keep his tone solicitous. Privately, he found the whole thing damn funny, but he could see that it wasn't in his best interests to admit it.

  


Evelyn, for her part, felt as though it might just be possible to spontaneously combust and literally _die_ of embarrassment. "The waiter heard it. No wonder he was grinning at me all evening. And the women at the table next to ours--they heard me, plain as day, I'm quite certain of it. Nosy parkers, listening in on other people's private conversations... Oh, _Rick_." She stopped short, turned, and buried her flushed face in the soft folds of his shirt. "This whole day has been a disaster," she moaned.

  


Rick, wrapping both arms around his blushing bride, was forced to concede that he'd brought the entire mess on himself.

  


Departing from London, they'd arrived in Paris to find their train already gone; after trying, without success, to find a hotel, they'd spent the night on a bench in the Gare de Lyon. Rick didn't particularly mind this; he'd spent worse nights in far more dangerous places, without such winsome company. He'd done everything he could to make Evelyn comfortable, and, when she'd finally drifted off to sleep with her head pillowed on his leg, he'd sat perfectly still, gazing down at her, hardly able to believe his good luck. He still wasn't quite certain exactly how he'd managed to con a girl like her into marrying him, but he must have done something right.

  


The following day's train ride had been long and arduous; since it was a day trip, there were no sleeper compartments available. After a fitful night on a hard bench, her hair mussed, her pretty new sundress creased, Evelyn had not been in a particularly sociable mood. Not that she hadn't expected to be exhausted on her honeymoon--after all, just look who she was married to!--but going to sleep hungry in a cold train station was certainly not her idea of how events were supposed to unfold. Rick didn't even seem to be bothered about any of it, which just made Evelyn's mood all the more cloudy. What was the fun of being miserable on their honeymoon if it wasn't an activity they could share in? As they'd boarded the train, the only thing Evelyn had wanted, more than a hot bath and a soft bed, was a good book to hide behind for the duration of the journey. She hadn't brought a single one along, of course, reasoning that she wouldn't have much time for reading on the trip.

  


Since Evelyn had had a difficult time trying to hold up her end of the conversation, her damnably ebullient husband had made up for the deficiency by teasing her rather mercilessly about her conversational French--or lack thereof. She'd had little use for it in Egypt, apart from the occasional letter to someone in the Department of Antiquities, and had grown rather rusty in the interim. Now, every time she tried to order a sandwich or to inquire about the lavatory, there he was, smirking at her best attempts to speak the silly language.

  


The ribbing had increased when they'd arrived at the hotel, only to find that their room had been given away because Evelyn had not been clear in her instructions when she telephoned from the train station. The hotel's manager, faced with the wrath of Hurricane Evelyn, graciously took the blame for the misunderstanding. Another room was available, and would be made ready for them as soon as possible. They left their luggage with the concierge, and went out to try and find something to eat in the meantime.

  


Evelyn, being Evelyn, would not admit defeat. When they stopped into the small, crowded restaurant for a late supper, she had seized her opportunity and conducted a conversation with their waiter in absolutely flawless French. In fact, as far as she could discern, she'd only made a single mistake the entire evening. Unfortunately, that mistake had been to say "_Je suis chaude_," rather than "_J'ai chaud_," when indicating to the waiter how overcome she was by the unseasonably warm weather. Both could literally be translated as 'I am hot', but the semantic meanings were very different indeed. Needless to say, the waiter had been a bit shocked by this candid admission from the innocent-seeming young Englishwoman.

  


When Rick had leaned across the table and explained Evelyn's faux pas, using more tact than most people would have given him credit for, she'd looked as if she were going to burst into tears. Evelyn was not one of those women who cried at the drop of a hat--a fact for which Rick had cause to be exceedingly grateful--but she hated, more than anything, to be thought ignorant. That it had been such an elementary mistake was almost more embarrassing than what had actually been said. He'd barely had time to slap the money down on the table before she dashed out of the restaurant--very nearly toppling the dessert cart en route to the door.

  


"It really wasn't a big deal, Evie." He pressed a kiss into her windblown hair, and laughed after all, in spite of his best efforts. Far above them, the stars winked down at him, as if sharing the joke.

  


Evelyn took a step back from him, scowling, cheeks ablaze with colour. "It's _not_ funny."

  


"Come on. Not even a little bit?" He smiled down at his wife, who was even more adorable when she was in a snit about something.

  


It was a funny word, _wife_--one that took some getting used to, especially for a man who'd never expected to have one of his own. Rick O'Connell had never been comfortable with both feet firmly planted on solid ground; he was a man who needed action and excitement in order to really feel alive. He'd always found it impossible to reconcile the placidity of married life with the kind of raging instability that kept him centred, and so he'd decided that he was simply not husband material.

  


And then, one sunny morning in Cairo Prison, Evelyn Carnahan had tripped lightly into his life.

  


He hadn't realized it at the time, but he and Evelyn were perfectly matched. He thrived on chaos, and she was chaos personified. He relished trouble; she _was_ trouble, a walking contradiction in modest skirts and far-from-sensible shoes. Quite simply, Rick loved the adventure of Evelyn, and every minor upheaval she brought into their lives made her that much more precious to him. Her mercurial moods steadied him, and her single-minded determination brought purpose into his life. Loving her was the only thing Rick had ever willingly surrendered to--and he didn't regret a moment of it so far.

  


As for Evelyn, she didn't quite understand how she could have come to fall in love with someone so different from herself. Logic suggested that two people with such vastly different outlooks on life should be at odds every moment they spent together. Then again, Evelyn was rather inclined to disregard logic whenever its findings didn't suit her needs. And while she knew, rationally, that she and Rick O'Connell should be completely and utterly wrong for one another, that didn't stop her heart from hammering every time he smiled at her.

  


He was smiling now, and before long her steely resolve began to buckle. Even at his most exasperating, she found it impossible to stay angry with Rick for very long at a time--and just now he was being surprisingly reasonable. "I suppose it could have been worse," she admitted.

  


Rick nodded. It could definitely have been worse. He could have told her about the _other_ mistake she'd made--when she'd meant to say she was full, and instead cheerfully announced to the entire room that she was expecting.

  


"After all," she continued, peeking coyly at him through her lashes, "I know the all words I'm going to need to get by on this trip. _Je t'aime, mon propre mari..._" Her sudden smile burst forth, radiant as an Egyptian sunrise. "I still can't quite believe it," she confessed.

  


"I know. Me neither." He was distinctly aware that he was grinning like an idiot--not to mention the fact that they were still practically nose to nose in the middle of a busy sidewalk--but he didn't care.

  


"I might be dreaming," she continued, quite matter-of-factly. "Perhaps you'd better pinch me."

  


Rick's eyebrows climbed. Making his face perfectly deadpan, he inquired, "Where?"

  


Evelyn stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear: "Darling, we're married now. You're perfectly within your rights to pinch me anywhere you like." When his mouth dropped open in mild surprise, she quickly kissed it, then turned and began to walk demurely up the street before he had a chance to act on her suggestion. She glanced once over her shoulder to make certain he was watching, then strolled on, exceedingly pleased with herself.

  


Not to be outdone, Rick caught up with her in a couple of swift strides and, without preamble, swept her up into his arms. Evelyn, who had never been much for public displays of affection, soon decided that certain exceptions ought to be made when one was on one's honeymoon. She allowed herself to be kissed soundly, and thoroughly, completely heedless to the comments and catcalls of passers-by, including a pair of middle-aged Britons who made a number of disparaging remarks about the French lack of morals.

  


"So there," Rick observed, as if he'd just had the last word in a discussion. Which he had, in a sense, since Evelyn lacked for breath to respond. The matter having been thusly settled, he offered his arm and they continued to walk, back the way they'd come, in the direction of their hotel. It was a beautiful night; even Rick, who rarely bothered to notice such things, had to admit that. Not a cloud in the sky, the sultry evening tempered by an occasional playful ocean breeze... perfect.

  


Evelyn stuck close to him, clinging tightly to his arm with both hands. She didn't seem herself, he noted. For one thing, she wasn't talking. And she was walking quicker than ever now. He hoped that restaurant thing wasn't still bothering her.

  


"You okay?" he inquired.

  


She gazed up at him with a misty, distant expression, but didn't reply. Well, it wasn't surprising that she was a little out of it, he reasoned. They'd done a lot of travelling over the past couple of days, and she hadn't been able to get much sleep. He resolved to let her set the tone for the rest of the night when they returned to the hotel. In all likelihood, she'd just want to get undressed--without his assistance--take a bath, and go straight to sleep. Well, one more night waiting for her wouldn't kill him, he mused. Hopefully.

  


"I bet you're tired," he conjectured, putting his arm around her.

  


Holding her close, he felt a shiver ripple through her slight frame--of course! The night air. She was probably cold. She always felt those things so much more acutely than he did. He wasn't going to ask where she'd left her wrap, since there wasn't much likelihood of getting it back now anyway. He stopped in his tracks, shrugged out of his jacket, and tucked her into it. "Better?"

  


"Thank you, I..." she frowned, apparently at a loss for words.

  


Maybe she was nervous about spending the night with him. She hadn't shown any trepidation about it so far, but that didn't mean anything; this was the girl who'd joked about coming back to haunt him, even as she sacrificed herself to save her friends. Just because she didn't show fear didn't mean it wasn't there. He'd just have to be patient with her, he told himself. No pressure. Take things slow.

  


"Rick," she murmured, a bright spot of colour blooming on each cheek.

  


"Honey, what's wrong?"

  


"Rick... _je suis chaude_," she murmured.

  


He grinned, shaking his head. _Here we go again,_ he thought. "You mean, _j'ai chaud_," he corrected gently.

  


Evelyn's gaze never wavered. "No," she said. "I don't."


	2. Cinq Minutes

_Author's Notes: thank you to those who reviewed! Virtual handshakes and hugs to all of you. I do hope you're very patient people, because I'm about to tax you unduly with this next chapter._

  


2. _Cinq Minutes_

  


The concierge regarded the pair before him with an air of distaste; this was precisely the type of person he'd hoped to avoid contact with by working at one of the more upscale establishments. To begin with, after cancelling the reservation via the telephone, they'd arrived anyhow--a day late, no less, with hardly a word of apology for the inconvenience--and then, when a room wasn't immediately available, they'd simply dumped their bags in the lobby while they went out to disport themselves.

  


Just now, they'd come dashing into the lobby from the Promenade, hand in hand, laughing riotously, like a pair of overgrown schoolchildren; both of them were flushed and windblown, and breathing heavily, as if they'd sprinted the whole way there. Didn't they know that this was a respectable hotel? The other patrons were bound to be unsettled by such wanton frivolity.

  


The woman in the grotty dress was the worst of the two; the concierge was quite certain, in spite of the matching wedding bands, that she was no better than she ought to be. Bare-armed, hair flying about her shoulders... she was a shameless one. This was the third time he'd called her by the name she'd signed in with earlier, and she still hadn't responded.

  


"Madame," he said again, impatiently. "Madame O'Connell."

  


The man nudged her. "Evie, that's you."

  


"Hmm? Oh!" she exclaimed, tittering. "It is, isn't it? Sorry... yes?" She wasn't even embarrassed to be caught out.

  


Trying to avoid letting his feelings show in his face, the concierge informed her that there had been a telephone call for her while she was out.

  


"For me?"

  


"_Oui_, madame."

  


She looked puzzled. It was probable, thought the concierge, that none of her family or friends knew she was here, pretending to be on her honeymoon. "Was there any message?" she asked.

  


"No. The gentleman did not wish to leave his name. Further to that, I did not inquire."

  


"Well, what was he like?"

  


"Madame, I did not see him. I merely spoke with him. Briefly."

  


"Yes, but--"

  


"The room's ready?" interrupted the man rudely, proffering his hand.

  


Without a word, the concierge relinquished the key. The man nodded, then took the woman by the arm and towed her in the direction of the lift. As they stepped onto it, the concierge heard the young woman inform her companion, "But I don't _know_ any gentlemen!"

  


He sincerely hoped he wouldn't regret letting them stay.

  


  


  


The moment the lift doors closed, Rick attempted an encore performance of his earlier maneuver on the sidewalk. He couldn't quite seem to manage it, though--mostly due to the fact that Evelyn was pacing back and forth in front of him, her brow creased in thought, talking animatedly. For someone who'd professed, mere moments ago, to be on fire for him, she was doing a damn fine job of concealing the fact.

  


"It couldn't have been someone from the museum," she pronounced, one tiny finger waving erratically in the air. "I didn't tell any of them where we were staying. I told our solicitor, but he wouldn't have called unless it was really urgent, and he would have left his name--don't you think?"

  


"How much did you have to drink at dinner, anyhow?" he demanded. Not that she wasn't a very cute drunk, but he definitely wanted her to remember what was hopefully about to happen.

  


She shot him a quizzical glance--what in heaven's name did _that_ have to do with anything? "Half a glass of wine," she replied, unconsciously side-stepping his grasp yet again. "Ooh! Now, it _might_ have been..."

  


Rick planted his feet firmly, folding his arms across his broad chest. He was _not_ about to chase her around an elevator while she chattered away about some damn phone message. His head was all fog and thunder, but she seemed able to turn her desire for him on and off like a tap. "Evelyn," he said quietly.

  


She barely stopped talking long enough to breathe. "I very much doubt it was someone from the Bembridge committee--although it would be like them to want to contact me _now_, wouldn't it?"

  


"_Evelyn_," he repeated.

  


"Hmm?"

  


"Hold still."

  


Evelyn stopped pacing, stopped gesticulating, and blinked up at him, as though she'd just remembered he was there. A moment later, she seemed to have remembered _why_ he was there, and, by extension, why _they_ were there, for she flashed him a wicked little grin. That was more like it. Now that he had her full attention, he gathered her up for a renewed attempt. This was somewhat more successful than his previous efforts, but Rick was understandably taken aback when his wife suddenly exclaimed, "Jonathan!"

  


He dropped her, perplexed. "What?!"

  


"It must have been Jonathan who left the message," she elucidated. "Who else could it have been? He's never been able to get along very well without me. He probably needs--"

  


"Bail money?" supplied Rick.

  


"People who live in glass houses oughtn't to throw stones, dear," she replied mildly, patting him on the shoulder. The lift doors opened, and they exited onto the fourth floor, Evelyn leading Rick by the hand. "Still, I wonder why he wouldn't leave his name? I hope he hasn't gotten himself into serious trouble... Here, I think it's this one."

  


At this particular moment, Rick honestly didn't give the proverbial rat's ass about his brother-in-law's motivations for calling and disrupting their evening. As he reached past her to unlock the door, he said, "Promise me something."

  


"Anything, darling."

  


"Don't ever--_ever_--yell out your brother's name when I kiss you."

  


"Why would I do that?" she queried, confused.

  


He didn't bother to reply, but threw the door open. The room was relatively small, but clean and comfortable looking, done in pastel shades of pink and blue. Their bags--Rick's one and Evelyn's seven--had been stacked neatly along the far wall. To the right, a curtain separated the canopied bed from the sitting area, while a door on the left presumably led to the bathroom.

  


Evelyn started to walk in, but Rick placed a firm hand on her shoulder and yanked her back out. "Not so fast," he told her. "I'm supposed to carry you."

  


She rolled her eyes dismissively. "Are you aware of the origins of that silly tradition?"

  


"Nope." He swept her up into his arms and carried her into the room, kicked the door closed behind him, and switched on the nearest lamp, all apparently without effort.

  


"Aren't you even the tiniest bit interested?" she persisted.

  


"Right now? Not really."

  


Evelyn continued talking anyhow, which didn't particularly surprise him. "It came about originally because the bride was often forced into a marriage that wasn't necessarily congenial to her. Later, it became the fashion for the innocent bride to be seen as reluctant to enter the bedroom with her new husband. She would protest, and so he would have to carry her." She placed both arms around his neck, regarding him with wide, dark eyes. "Do I seem... reluctant... to you?" she breathed, in a husky voice that turned his knees to water. "Are you afraid I'm going to run away, Rick?"

  


"I'm not taking any chances," he told her, depositing her on the bed without breaking stride. When he attempted to join her, however, she edged away from him, scooting up towards the headboard. He moved towards her, lightning-quick, but she held up her index finger, halting him mid-pounce. Rick was not a man often given to prayer, but in that instant he actually, honestly _prayed_ she wasn't going to make him sit still for a historical lecture.

  


"Would you think me an absolute beast if I took just five minutes to clean up?" she asked, fixing him with a pleading look.

  


When she phrased it like that, it made him feel like a jerk for even briefly considering saying yes. "Course not," he muttered, turning away from her and flopping down unceremoniously. "Take as long as you need."

  


"_Cinq minutes._" Her lovely face appeared above him, intriguingly inverted. "I promise." She hovered a moment, then leaned down and kissed him. Such a soft, slow kiss; teasing, exploring, their relative positions infusing every familiar move with exciting new potential. To Rick, it seemed to go on forever. When he began to sit up, she placed both hands on his shoulders and pressed down, effectively stilling him. He remained supine, surrendering to her, his body so full of pent-up energy that he thought he might just explode if it went on for even another second. _Trust Evelyn to find _another_ way to drive me crazy_, he thought, head spinning, blood racing. He got the sense that, before the night was over, he was going to wonder how on earth he'd ever managed to peg this girl as shy and innocent.

  


They were both breathing fast when she finally broke it off; his eyes were still closed, but he felt her slide off the bed, and heard her rifling through the collection of bags she'd insisted on bringing. The bathroom door opened and closed a moment later. All was silence for a time, and then, barely audible above the sound of running water, he detected Evelyn's off-key warbling. Laughter welled up from someplace deep inside him, and he was chuckling before he could stop himself. Not because his wife couldn't carry a tune in a ten-gallon tub; he'd known that long before he'd even thought of proposing, and it didn't particularly affect him one way or the other. But that tiny detail, the fact of her singing, made everything exquisitely real for him. He was married to Evelyn, and he was, possibly for the first time in his entire life, so happy that he didn't know what to do with himself. And so he lay on the bed, and laughed, and waited for his wife to emerge.

  


And waited.

  


And _waited_.

  


"Five minutes, my ass," he groused, rolling fluidly to his feet. It had been almost half an hour, he was certain of it. After all that torture, she was probably asleep in the damn tub--or reading! She'd brought so many suitcases that it was impossible for him to believe that she hadn't packed books in at least one of them. It was fortunate that Rick O'Connell was a confident fellow; there weren't many men who could endure this sort of treatment on their honeymoon and not take it personally.

  


He went to the door of the bathroom and knocked once; no answer. He tried again, louder, then rattled the doorknob for good measure. She was a pretty light sleeper, and if she had dropped off in the bathtub, that should be enough to wake her. "Evie?" he called. He heard movement inside--scuffling along the tile floor, perhaps--but still no response to his inquiry. Irritated, he thumped on the door with the heel of his hand. "Come on out of there already." Confidence may have been one of his strengths, but patience most certainly was not. He could definitely hear her rattling things around in there now. Whatever new game she was playing, it ended here. "Evelyn," he intoned gruffly, "either you come out, or I'm coming--"

  


Which was when he heard the sound that made his blood turn to ice.


	3. Qui Etes Vous?

_Author's Notes: Merci bien for all the reviews! You guys are the most fun collection of readers ever. Sorry for any head explosions that occurred after the posting of the second chapter._

  


_Jill: *assumes lecture tone* Yes, that is thought to be one origin of the carrying across the threshold, although it stems from an earlier tradition that supposedly kept the bride safe from evil spirits. If you're interested in my research (which would be scary, frankly ;) ) e-mail me and I'll show you where I got all the info from. Le français, c'est rigolo!_

  


_Nefret: I can tell you're going to cause trouble again with the plot predicting. Especially when you see this next chapter. Pleeeeeeeease behave yourself! ;)_

  


_PZB: Here, at last, is the "you-know-what". But you knew that. ;)_

  


3. _Qui etes-vous?_

  


As she eased off the bed and slipped away, Evelyn really _did_ intend to take only five minutes. She carried with her a small toiletries case and a change of clothes. She turned in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder at Rick. He still had his eyes closed. More than one devious impulse occurred to her, but she shut the door firmly before she could act on any of them.

  


Though given to teasing, Evelyn was not a cruel person. She knew that delaying her husband much longer was bordering on the sadistic. After all, it wasn't as though she herself weren't eager to go on. She simply wanted to look as ravishing as she possibly could, and, taking into account everything she'd been through over the past couple of days, such an accomplishment just might take more than five minutes.

  


Oh, she understood that Rick would be pleased with her no matter how she looked. His ability to appreciate her natural charms in any and all states of dress was one of his more endearing qualities. Even on days when she looked perfectly ghastly, when her hair and clothes were a cock-eyed mess and her skin seemed the wrong colour entirely, he never failed to let her know how attractive she was to him. Not that Rick was given to effusive or fulsome praise, but he didn't need to be; his feelings were in each hungry look, in every worshipful touch. It was a self-perpetuating cycle: he found her beautiful, and so she felt beautiful, and it showed. The glowing girl who looked back at her from the mirror was proof of that. If only her hair weren't so tangled and matted. And her face could do with a bit of a wash...

  


After rigourous applications of hairbrush and hot water had restored some semblance of order, Evelyn's attention wandered to the nightgown she'd picked out. She held it up to herself critically, frowning. It was a silk and lace confection, expensive, purchased on a whim, and a good deal more revealing than anything else she owned. It was also, after being stuffed hurriedly into the side compartment of one of her bags before Rick could see it, more than a bit wrinkled. She held it against the bathroom door and ran her hand over it, trying to smooth it down, with little success. It was really the most frivolous slip of a garment; there was nearly nothing to it. Which, she reflected with a mischievious smile, was rather the point.

  


While far from being what anyone would call a woman of the world, Evelyn had read enough and heard enough to have formed some very definite ideas about bridal nights in general, and her own in particular. She reasoned that a nightgown was highly impractical and counter-productive, unless it inspired one's husband to remove it. Which this one almost certainly would, crumpled or not. Once started on this merry track, Evelyn's train of thought began to meander a bit, a dreamy expression stealing over her face.

  


She was in the process of working at the side-fastenings of her dress, only half-concentrating on the task at hand, when she first heard the noise. She dismissed it, initially, as the wind, or perhaps the building settling. It didn't particularly concern her as she shimmied out of the dress, which pooled at her feet. Standing before the mirror in her simple white slip, she misted a little bit of perfume onto her hairbrush and ran it through her hair--a trick she'd learned from her mother when she was young. The perfume had been a gift from Rick, although she suspected that Jonathan had been at least partly responsible for its selection. Whatever his failings were--and they were numerous--her brother was an old hand at picking out presents for women.

  


Evelyn suddenly felt a strange chill, as though she were being watched. When she looked into the mirror again, she happened to catch a glimpse of the little window behind her, and her heart leapt into her throat.

  


Someone was there!

  


She whirled around, torn between the impulse to cover herself and the instinct to confront the invader of her privacy. The face at the window had vanished; perhaps she'd merely imagined it, she reasoned, or seen her own face somehow reflected in the window-glass.

  


When the knock at the bathroom door came, she very nearly jumped out of her skin. She knew it was Rick, of course--who else could it be?--but that didn't stop her heart from bumping against her ribs as though it were about to break through. Then the doorknob rattled. She looked at it, startled. Rick wouldn't be trying to get in, not without saying anything first. And it was then that the face at her window reappeared--a man's face. He looked her over, grinned, and made a vulgar motion with his tongue.

  


Evelyn was not a woman particularly predisposed to irrational terror. However, being alarmed at the sight of a strange man at your bathroom window late at night could hardly be called irrational. It wasn't as though she were expecting any strange men--or any men, really, other than Rick, and he was strange in a nice way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the current goings-on.

  


The man at the window smiled, and rattled the sash tauntingly. It was locked, so he couldn't get in that way, but it was a menacing gesture just the same, and Evelyn was not feeling particularly brave at this point. She backed into the sink, knocking miscellaneous toiletries into the basin as she did so. The resulting cacophony pushed her completely over the edge; she jumped, not knowing where to turn. When she heard a male voice at the door, she was in such a state of anxiety that she couldn't recognize who spoke, let alone process what was being said. The man at the window reared back, as if preparing to smash the glass, and Evelyn did the only thing she could think to do under the circumstances.

  


She screamed like a banshee.

  


It was a formidable scream, and it seemed to do the trick, at least momentarily. The man at the window ducked out of sight, and the rattling and banging at the door ceased. Heart and hands both fluttering wildly, Evelyn looked about her, realizing that she didn't have much of a chance. There weren't exactly any suitable weapons to hand, unless she hoped to beat her would-be assailant back with her hairbrush. She grabbed it anyhow.

  


There was a hollow thud, then another, and then the door gave way with a crack and a groan, ripped clean off its hinges. Evelyn felt her entire being flood with relief as Rick charged into the room, fists raised, jaw set. He glanced around, and, seeing that she was alone, looked to her expectantly.

  


"A man was at the window," she gasped, pointing to where the leering face had lately vanished.

  


"You okay?"

  


She nodded. He didn't fail to notice the way she was brandishing the sturdy wooden hairbrush, like she'd been about to clock someone with it. He had to give her credit; she had more guts than he did when it came to facing impossible odds.

  


He strode to the window and bent to peer out. "It's too dark to see anything," he told her. He unlocked it, yanked up the sash, and stuck his head and shoulders out for a better look. There was no one there, as far as he could tell. Still, someone could easily have climbed the wrought-iron fire escape, he noted, chagrined. Hell of a place to put it. "What was he doing? Watching you get changed?"

  


She nodded again. Her eyes, wide and so dark, were fixed on his face.

  


"Shit." He smashed his fist against the wall, wishing like hell it was the face of the guy who'd been gawking at his wife.

  


"I was brushing my hair, and I turned and saw him, like this." She demonstrated with a graceful glance over her shoulder. "He rattled the window a bit. And then he went," she raised her arm, echoing the motion she'd seen, "like he was about to break in. So I screamed." Evelyn dropped the brush in the sink and wrapped both arms around herself, the combination of fear and latent adrenaline causing her to tremble uncontrollably. "That was you at the door?" she asked, before realizing how ridiculous the question was. If only she hadn't panicked, she could have unlocked the door and let Rick deal with the man on the fire escape.

  


Rick felt a pang of guilt, realizing that his impatient pounding must have been partly responsible for her current state. "Yeah. Sorry." He moved to hold her, tentatively at first, not sure if that was what she needed. She all but melted into his arms. "Didn't mean to scare you," he murmured. He stroked her hair, wondering how she could have made it so soft just by brushing it. He tried not to notice that she was most of the way undressed, or that she smelled incredible. Unfortunately, trying not to notice something is the surest way to bring it to the forefront of one's mind. Before long, he was imagining sliding the dainty straps down over her shoulders, hearing the whisper of the fabric against her soft skin as it began to fall, revealing...

  


He reddened, embarrassed for even thinking dirty thoughts at a moment like this. "Sorry," he said again, flustered, not sure what he was apologizing for. It wasn't like she could read his mind.

  


"It's all right." He was suddenly warm, so warm, and she clung tightly to him, trying to rid herself of the chill that had come over her. "You were here when I needed you," she whispered, breath hot against his neck.

  


Thoroughly ashamed of his response to her closeness, and certain his observant wife would notice, he took a step back and quipped, "Well, that's why you married me, right? To keep bad guys from carrying you off whenever they damn well feel like it?"

  


She giggled, relieving some of the tension still coursing through her. "You're doing a fine job so far," she told him solemnly. "Keep up the good work."

  


He gave a mock salute. "Okay, I'm gonna go out there and look around." He turned and walked out of the bathroom, hands in his pockets, unknowingly trampling Evelyn's delicate little nightgown in the process. She picked it up and draped it over the rim of the tub, then followed him over to where their luggage stood. He sifted through her bags before locating his own, then delved in and pulled out a familiar set of objects.

  


"You brought guns on our honeymoon?!" she demanded.

  


"Not _guns_, honey. Just one." He loaded the pistol, then looked blankly at her, unable to discern any problem.

  


"Why even one?"

  


"To protect my--our--you. To protect you."

  


She made a skeptical noise, but said nothing.

  


He proffered the gun. She folded her arms, one of the straps on her slip falling down over her shoulder as she did so. 

  


"Go on," he insisted. He knew firearms made her uncomfortable, but he also knew she knew how to use them when she had to. "I'd feel better knowing you had this."

  


"I don't see why you have to go at all," she sighed. "I'm not the least bit frightened, not anymore. It just startled me, seeing him there like that. We're perfectly safe here; it's a crowded hotel, with staff on duty at all hours. We even have a telephone in the room. I don't think he'll bother coming back, anyhow. He probably got quite a shock when I started screaming bloody murder." Saying these things out loud was almost enough to convince herself of them.

  


If she'd stopped after 'I'm not the least bit frightened', he might have believed her. As it was, though, he didn't want to push it. "Just for my own peace of mind?"

  


"I suppose, if you have to... but you take the gun, I don't want it."

  


"Okay, but what do you do if someone grabs you?"

  


"Kick him."

  


He grinned. "Yeah? Where?"

  


She sighed and rolled her eyes, letting him know he was being juvenile. She nodded in the direction of the area in question, and Rick realized it was probably not the brightest move in the world to have directed her attention there.

  


She didn't react, however, so he kept going with, "Seriously, though, Evelyn. Don't think; just act." He reached out and carefully replaced the fallen strap for her, caressing her shoulder as he did so. "Don't forget to, um, lock the bathroom window, and--"

  


He never got to deliver the rest of his advice; Evelyn was taking the first part of it to heart. She flung both arms around him, her mouth meeting his own with painful urgency. The pain, however, was soon forgotten in a haze of purely animal instinct. Her body had become magnetized, drawn irresistibly towards his, and she had fought the forces of nature enough for one night. In that instant, she didn't care if the entire French Foreign Legion was outside the bathroom window, as long as her own handsome legionnaire was here, in her arms.

  


Surprisingly, it was he who put a stop to the proceedings, gently drawing away. "Just a quick look," he said. She responded by planting a trail of kisses along his jawline and down the side of his neck. "I'll, uh, I'll only be five minutes, really," he averred, his resolve already weakening. He took her by the shoulders, and removed her to a point from which she was less capable of distracting him. "And when _I_ say five minutes, I mean five--honey, you're killin' me here!" he protested. Evelyn, with characteristic fixity of purpose, had unbuttoned his shirt half-way and slipped her hands inside. After a couple of failed attempts, he managed to grab both those busy little hands and hold them fast. "Evie, _please_... I can't."

  


She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Oh, I've no doubt that you _can_," she whispered.

  


He nodded, in spite of himself. She nodded back, and smiled conspiratorially.

  


Involuntarily, his hands relaxed, allowing hers to slip free and resume their work. She managed the rest of the buttons in record time, but was momentarily stymied by his belt buckle, plucking ineffectually at it with tiny fingers. He watched, momentarily transfixed, torn between helping her and backing away before this could go any further.

  


It was a Herculean effort, but he managed to keep his voice steady as he said, "Hey, come on, knock it off."

  


"Fair is fair," she told him, indicating her own rather scanty attire. Biting her lower lip, she pursued her objective with renewed determination.

  


"Gonna make me go walking around outside without any pants?" he teased. He knew he'd never forgive himself if he didn't make certain she was safe before finishing what she had so insistently started. "Because if you want to get us kicked out of here, that'll do it."

  


Evelyn laughed merrily, and her hands fell away. "We'd have to spend the night on the beach," she suggested, with a mischievious look.

  


"Yeah, just me, you, and all your suitcases."

  


She sighed. "It would be ever so romantic."

  


Obviously, this girl had never slept on a beach. "It'd be ever so freezing your ass off," he replied.

  


"Oh, I'm certain you'd find a way to keep me nice and warm..."

  


He started backing towards the door, hurriedly buttoning his shirt, before she could rally for another attack. "Be right back," he announced.

  


She sank down onto the edge of the bed, crossing her legs demurely at the ankle--an almost laughable contrast to her anything-but-proper state of undress. "I'll be waiting," she informed him.

  


He closed the door behind him and started walking down the hall before he could entertain any second thoughts. He took the stairs down to the main floor, working off some of the excess energy coursing through him, before marching past the snooty guy at the front desk and out the main doors.

  


When he didn't come charging back into the room, she sighed huffily and went to change into her nightgown. This turned out to be impossible: besides being sadly wrinkled, the much-abused garment now featured a large boot-print across the front. Chagrined, she wadded it up and tossed it into the bathtub.

  


Now, what else had Rick said she ought to do? She couldn't, for the life of her, remember, her mind having been otherwise occupied at the time. It was something to do with the bathroom, she was almost certain. She glanced about her, hoping for a clue, then caught sight of herself in the mirror and made one or two quick adjustments to her attire. The slip would have to do in a pinch. It had obviously had the desired effect, even if their latest encounter did end with his running from the room...

  


It didn't take Rick long to locate the wall of the hotel where their window was located; he recognized the view almost immediately. He scouted around, looking for the man Evelyn had seen. It was seeming more and more likely that the guy had just been a peeping tom, long gone in search of less troublesome windows.

  


When he turned and looked up, he recognized the view there too. Evelyn, still in her slip, was standing around in the bathroom, in plain sight of the whole damn street. He felt a flash of irritation; why didn't she just put up a neon sign? If this was what that guy had seen, no wonder he'd climbed four flights for a better look. He wondered if she'd even locked the window the way he'd told her to. She was notoriously bad for forgetting things like that; she'd left her cabin door unlocked during at least one ill-fated journey down the Nile. She'd never admit it if he asked her, though. Maybe now was a good time to find out, he thought, testing the fire escape to see if it would support his weight.

  


Evelyn swept her various bottles and boxes into her toiletries case, snapped it closed, and looked around once more. She still had the nagging feeling that there was something she'd forgotten. She picked up her hairbrush and absently began to brush her hair while she thought. She was probably just unsettled over the evening's events. Well, she reflected with a smile, not all of them. Most of them had been quite agreeable. It was really only the man at the window that had--

  


Evelyn froze when she heard it: a rattle at the window. He was back! She remembered Rick's advice, and didn't think; instead, she acted. She moved to one side and let the window slide open; then, as a head and shoulders poked through, she reared back and slammed the hairbrush down, as hard as she could.

  


It wasn't until a moment later, as her husband lolled, unresponsive, half-way in the window, that Evelyn realized her ghastly mistake.

  


"Rick?" She shook him--gently at first, then with more force when he didn't move or answer. Somehow, she managed to pull him the rest of the way through the window, laying him out on the tile floor. She called his name again, but there was still no response. At least he was breathing, she noted, continuing to shake him. Why, _why_, couldn't she have a normal honeymoon? There must be thousands of women around the world who did it every single day, and she was fairly certain that very few of them knocked their husbands unconscious on their wedding night. "Rick, please wake up," she urged. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so..." She stood over the sink, ran the tap, and splashed cold water on his face. He was going to have a nasty headache when he woke up--she'd fallen and cracked her head enough times to know that much. Kneeling beside him, she felt around at the back of his head. She didn't seem to have done any serious damage. Rick had always had a particularly hard head; there was no reason why it should suddenly fail him now.

  


"Darling, please," she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his face. "Come back to me."

  


His eyelashes fluttered, and she thought for a moment that her heart was going to stop beating. She hoped he wouldn't yell, although she certainly couldn't blame him if he did. Although it _was_ his advice that had prompted her to do it in the first place...

  


"Rick...?" she quavered.

  


His eyes flicked open. He looked up at her a moment, then a lazy smile came over his face. "Hi there," he purred, not seeming particularly bothered by what she'd just done. No doubt he'd be more himself in a moment.

  


"Hallo," she breathed.

  


He sat up and glanced around him, confusion etched on his face, then reached around to feel the area where she'd smacked him. He looked startled, running a hand through his hair, then seemed to shake it off.

  


"How... how are you feeling?"

  


"Head hurts like a son of a bitch," he informed her.

  


She winced. "I'm not surprised."

  


"Apart from that, though, I'm doin' pretty good."

  


She slipped her arm under his and helped him to his feet. He wobbled a little bit at first, but then his balance seemed to return. He glanced down at himself, noting with amusement that his shirt buttons were all cock-eyed. Then he looked her up and down, slowly, drinking in every inch of her with approval and desire.

  


Evelyn gave him a pleading look. "Darling, I--let me make it up to you." She sidled closer, slid both arms about his waist. "Let me make you feel better, Rick," she cooed, resting her chin on his chest and peering up at him.

  


"Hey, you don't have to ask me twice," he murmured, grinning. "Matter of fact, I have only one small question."

  


"What's that?"

  


"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but... who are you, again?"

  


  



	4. Nous Sommes Mariés!

_Author's Notes: I'd like to say I'm sorry for that last section, especially the last line... but I'm not, so I won't. Mwaha. I'm equally not sorry for stealing the amnesia gag from Elizabeth Peters, since I'm using it for good and not evil... well, not much evil, anyhow._

  


_4. Nous Sommes Mariés!_

  


  


"What?" she whispered, taking a step back.

  


"I don't think we've been properly introduced." He grinned. "I'd remember meeting a girl in her underwear. Trust me."

  


"Rick, stop teasing." She folded her arms across her chest and fixed him with her very sternest look.

  


He looked blankly at her a moment, then dropped his gaze, canting his head to one side. Someone with less reason to trust him might have wondered whether he wasn't trying to peek down the front of her slip.

  


"I said _stop_ it!" She reached out and smacked him on the chest. He immediately straightened up and looked her in the eye, his expression suspiciously ingenuous. "It isn't funny. You're scaring me!"

  


Rick shook his head, slowly.

  


"You--you can't mean... you've really forgotten who I am?" She paled visibly.

  


His broad shoulders rippled in a shrug. "Sorry." It was that awful, callous indifference that convinced her, more than anything. He frowned for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Istanbul, right? You were the girl I bumped into in the bazaar, I knocked over your..." Seeing her crestfallen expression, he pressed on with, "Um... Marrakesh? The girl in the bar, with the... no, huh?"

  


Evelyn felt cold all over.

  


"Hmm. Gimme a minute, it'll come back..."

  


She clamped down on her emotions before they could explode into riotous panic. "You'd better stay here," she told him.

  


He nodded, puzzled.

  


Closing the room-dividing curtain, she dressed quickly, hands fumbling with the buttons. It was the only thing she could think of to do, and the familiarity of the action calmed her. It also gave her time to figure out what she was to do next. Common sense dictated that she ought to take him to a doctor--or have a doctor come to him; but how could she possibly explain what she had done? And what could a doctor do to help? The entire situation was simply wretched. She'd just wait and see... perhaps his memory of her would return after he'd had a few minutes to recover from the blow.

  


"You may come out now," she announced, emerging from behind the curtain.

  


He was engaged in examining his own reflection in the mirror when she called. It had been a while since he'd seen himself looking quite so smart--short hair, clean-shaven, new clothes, the whole nine yards. Apart from the shirt buttons, he was quite the swell.

  


He stepped over the ruined door without giving it a second glance, and came face to face with the girl. He looked her over, disappointed by her rather conservative attire, then shrugged. If she wanted to hide what Mother Nature had given her, well, that was her business.

  


She looked at him expectantly, but after a moment her face fell. "You've no idea at all?" she asked, in that clipped little British accent of hers.

  


He shook his head. "Nope." Rick felt bad that he hadn't tried harder to remember where they'd met, but names just weren't his strong point. Especially when there were so many girls, in so many places... "If it helps, lady, last night I was so drunk I probably had trouble remembering _my_ name." He looked around him, wondering exactly where he was. He'd seen the inside of a few of the nicer hotels in Cairo, and this didn't remind him of anywhere he'd been before.

  


"Do you... do you know your own name?" she asked, hesitantly. Her eyes were large, liquid, deep enough to drown in.

  


"Sure."

  


"Well?" she prompted.

  


"You used it in there." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "You know, when you said you were gonna help me feel better?" He grinned at her. "How 'bout it?"

  


"Your name," she said.

  


He rolled his eyes, but indulged her anyhow. "Rick. Rick O'Connell."

  


"And... what's the last thing you remember?"

  


"Jeez. I kinda had a rough night. You know how it is."

  


He winked at her. She wrinkled her nose. Okay, so maybe she _didn't_ know how it was. Which begged the question of how she had ended up next to him on the floor in her underwear.

  


"I think there was a bar... I'm pretty sure there was a bottle..." He touched the back of his head gingerly, wincing. Felt like he'd been hit with a hammer. "I'm guessing there must have been a fight at some point. Okay, so I give up. How'd I get here? And is your husband gonna turn up any time soon?" he asked, casually inspecting the room. He figured he'd save questions about his hair and clothes for later.

  


"My husband?" she squeaked.

  


"Yeah." He pointed to her left hand. "You know, the guy whose ring you're wearing?"

  


She just looked at him for a moment, stricken, fiddling with her locket. She sure was nervous. Real high-strung. Not the type he usually went for--although she was pretty cute... but she was married, and that wasn't really his style. Pissed-off husbands tended to be a lot more trouble than he went looking for, most days. Especially wealthy pissed-off husbands. They could afford to just hire guys to do nasty things to you. Rick wasn't particularly interested in the view from the bottom of the Nile river.

  


"It's _your_ ring," she blurted.

  


He did a double-take. There was no _way_ he could have heard that correctly. 

  


"I'm your wife," she continued, more steadily now. "We--we're married."

  


"_What?!_" 

  


Silently, she pointed to his own ring finger, and he was startled to discover that there did seem to be a ring there. How drunk had he been last night?

  


"We've been married for three days. We're in Nice, on our honeymoon trip. You suggested it. I'd never been here. And so far, it's been a raging bloody success." She made the last statement through gritted teeth.

  


"No."

  


"No?"

  


"Uh-uh. No way, lady. Not a chance in hell." He took the ring off and placed it on the table nearby. "No offense, sweetheart--I'm sure you're a great girl, and not a total loss in the looks department if you'd learn to dress properly--but I'm not marriage material. Trust me." He started making his way towards the door. The sooner he made it out of this whole weird situation, the sooner he could get back to drinking his way across Egypt. "Now, unless you want to renew your offer to, uh, make me feel better, I'm outta here."

  


"You are not going anywhere," she told him primly.

  


He turned to regard her skeptically. How in hell did a little thing like her propose to stop him, exactly?

  


"We have to get a doctor," she continued. "We need to find out what's wrong with you." She pointed to a nearby chair. "Now you--you just sit down over there while I make the call."

  


Now that sounded distinctly like an order. And Rick did not take orders from girls--especially crazy girls. This little English broad, cute or not, was as bughouse as they came. "'Scuse me?" he murmured, in the low rumble that was more ominous than his shouts. "_We_ don't need to find out anything. The only thing wrong with me is a hangover, and I can cure that real quick. With or without your help."

  


"Sit. Down. _Now_." It was definitely an order, all right.

  


"Who the hell are you to order me around?"

  


"I'm your wife. Whether you know it or not."

  


"Well, have a nice life, Mrs. O'Connell."

  


"You can't just leave!"

  


"Oh yeah? Watch me!"

  


She positioned herself between him and the door, her posture making it clear that the only way he was going to get past her was with physical force. He'd never hit a girl, and he wasn't about to start now. He momentarily considered throwing her over his shoulder and locking her in a closet or something, but instead tried an appeal to reason, beginning with, "Look, lady--"

  


"Stop calling me that!" she snapped.

  


"Well, until I know your goddamn name, I don't know what _else_ to call you!"

  


"Don't you dare curse at me, Richard O'Connell!"

  


Yikes. No one had called him _Richard_ since he was a kid. He hadn't liked it then, either. "I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but--"

  


"I'm not trying to _pull_ anything!"

  


"Then why the hell won't you just tell me your name?!"

  


Whereupon Evelyn, having reached the end of her rope, burst into tears.

  


Rick _hated_ it when they cried.

  


"C'mon, don't do that..." He thought at first that it might be a put-on, to keep him from walking out. If so, she deserved a standing ovation for her performance. But as she cried on, steadily, quietly, he started to get nervous. "Okay. Okay! I won't leave, all right?" He took a couple of steps away from the door, as a gesture of good faith. Even that didn't put a stop to the waterworks.

  


He looked down at his now-bare ring finger, wondering if it might just be possible... no. Not even if hell froze over and the devil himself started giving free sleigh rides. Someone was trying to mess with him, for whatever reason. But maybe--just maybe--that same someone was messing with her, too. Maybe she really and truly believed she was married to Rick, the poor kid. He figured he had nothing to lose by playing along. The beauty about your life going nowhere is that an unexpected change of course isn't an inconvenience.

  


He moved closer to her, but instead of looking up at him, trying to appeal to his sympathy, like most girls he knew would have done, she hid her face in her hands. "Okay, c'mere," he said gruffly, and yanked her forward, awkwardly putting his arms around her. "Shh. Look, we'll figure this out together, okay? Everything's going to be fine." He said it with a confidence he didn't feel. It didn't seem to help anyway, as she sobbed into his broad shoulder. He stroked her hair with one hand, tentatively at first, then with more assurance when she didn't object. It was so soft, and smelled so good... she stopped crying, but he could still feel her shudder with each intake of breath, and so he kept her close. For one crazy moment, he wished he were the man she so desperately wanted him to be. But she was a nice, smart, spirited girl, and that type of girl just didn't truck with guys like Rick O'Connell. It had to be a mistake, or a con.

  


After what seemed like hours, she drew away from him. Part of him, a small part, actually regretted this; he'd liked the feel of her in his arms. Like she fit there. "Will you stay?" she asked softly. "Will you let me call a doctor to examine you?"

  


"Okay." He hated to ask again, since it seemed to upset her so much, but he had to know. "So... what do I call you, honey?"

  


Her lower lip trembled, but when she spoke, her voice was firm. "Evelyn." The name was like its owner: undeniably pretty and unmistakably British. "You--you sometimes call me Evie," she added, uncertainly.

  


"Evie."

  


"You don't have to..."

  


"No, it's cute. Suits you." He smiled. "So, Evie, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" he quipped.

  


She groaned feelingly.

  


"What?"

  


"You--I just--never mind." She sank down into the nearest chair. "You'd better rest," she told him. "Perhaps that will help."

  


"Can't hurt," he replied, rubbing the back of his head. It was really swelling up. He hoped the other guy was hurting where it counted.

  


He glanced around the room. There was just the one bed, and a very small couch off in the corner. He didn't expect her to share the bed, or want her to, really--the whole situation was just too strange. And he was afraid of what he might do, how he might react to her once the lights were out and both of them could pretend he was a better person.

  


When he began to walk towards the couch, though, she indicated the curtained area where the bed stood. "You'll sleep in there," she told him. Rick bristled at the imperious tone; but he knew, somehow, that she only used it to hide her hurt. "Once I've found a doctor, I have to put a call through to Cairo. I'm not sure how long it will take."

  


"Who's in Cairo?"

  


"Jonathan." She looked at him like he was supposed to have a hot clue who that was. After a very disappointing pause, she added, "My brother. If he's still there, and if he even bothers to answer the telephone... I don't suppose I'll sleep much tonight."

  


"Well, you probably weren't expecting to anyhow," he replied, before he had a chance to think. "Being on your honeymoon and all."

  


She didn't smile. "Good night, Rick."

  


"Night."

  


Behind the curtain, he sat on the bed to remove his shoes. He could hear Evelyn speaking to the exchange in a low voice. What a mess. He stretched out on the bed, lacing his hands behind his head. It had been a long time since he'd had a real, comfortable bed to sleep in--at least, as far as he knew.

  


And what if--somehow--she was telling the truth? What if he really had married this girl, and somehow managed to forget ever even meeting her? What if his memory never came back? He quickly discarded this line of thought. It just wasn't possible. It couldn't be. It _wasn't_. Maybe they'd figure everything out in the morning...

  


  


  


Jonathan Carnahan had been out all night, drinking the health of his sister and her new husband. He'd been celebrating their marriage since about a week before the happy event, and would continue to celebrate it until he'd been the rounds of all the half-decent bars in Cairo. It was a fine life, really; all a fellow had to do was announce that his baby sister had just been married, and immediately all the chaps far and wide were lining up to buy him drinks.

  


He had stumbled home sometime before dawn--at any rate, after it was done being dark, but before it could be properly said to have been morning. The hour at which decent people are either asleep, or just getting up. He was in the process of shucking off his shirt, shoes, and tie when the telephone began to ring.

  


Ordinarily, Jonathan would have cursed the infernal instrument, and whoever was on the other end, to an eternity of brimstone and torment. But on this particular almost-morning, he was expecting, and indeed hoping for, a call from a very nubile young woman he'd encountered on his nocturnal travels. Pinching and slapping himself to an acceptable degree of consciousness and sobriety, he ambled over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

  


"Hallo-allo-allo!" he trilled cheerfully.

  


There was a long pause, and then someone began to speak. The voice on the other end was tinny, indistinct, and overlaid by a veneer of static. But it was undoubtedly a female voice.

  


"I'm sorry? The line's not good, you'll have to speak up."

  


The voice on the other end began to shout. His enthusiasm was quickly dampened as he realized that its owner was not the luscious young woman of his acquaintance, but only his sister.

  


"Evie, you brat, what on earth do you want?" he bellowed, not bothering to listen to her reply. "I've only just got home, can't this wait?"

  


"It's Rick," she said.

  


Jonathan smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "What about him?" _Good heavens_, he thought. _Not married a week and they've had a falling-out_.

  


"Something's happened, Jonathan--there's been an accident. You've got to come straight away."

  


Jonathan was instantly alert. "Accident? Is he very badly hurt?"

  


"No, not much, only..." There was a funny, muffled sound on the line, and it took Jonathan a moment to realize that his sister was crying. "Jon, it's awful!"

  


"I--I'll book passage as quickly as I can, old mum. Chin up."

  


She gave him the address of the hotel, thanked him, and rang off. Jonathan quickly dressed, called for a car, then got down on all fours and began hunting about for his passport.

  



	5. Je N'irai Point!

_Author's Notes: I love you all! You do persevere, don't you? Browbeating me into writing... gosh, who ever thought Christmas break would be so much work? ;)_

  


_To the folks who e-mailed me about my gratuitous use of French--I footnoted the discussions in this chapter. Let me know if it works for you._

  


_Buffelyn: I'm sorry it irks you that the, er, sex, is, by all accounts, not being had, either in this story or in "Never Spellbound". (And here I thought you loved me for my mind!) In this one, at least, there's no hope for a while (sorry!). Still, I do hope you will enjoy the plot just the same. If you were still after writing an amnesia story, you could always mix it up a bit by having Evie be the one to get bonked on the head... And yes, I do read minds. I know what you're thinking right now, in fact. Shame on you, such language. ;)_

  


_Nefret: Speaking of reading minds... one more prediction and I'm sending some guys to your house to break your keyboard. I am very much NOT fooled by your supposed new-leaf-turning. The weather, indeed... pish. ;)_

  


  


5. _Je n'irai point!_

  


  


Evelyn, after yet another sleepless night, was beginning to feel a bit frayed about the edges. She almost envied Rick: he may have gotten coshed in the head, lost his memory, and been awakened by a doctor trying to test his pupil dilation by shining bright lights in his eyes, but at least he'd managed a decent night's sleep.

  


In the two days since the unfortunate incident, she had spoken to four doctors, one after another. The first three had each examined Rick in turn, and, being unable to find anything wrong with him other than a bruised head, a foul temper, and an aversion to tongue depressors, had referred her case to a different specialist. Finally, the third doctor, a kindly young man whose English was about on par with Evelyn's French, suggested she consult a psychiatrist, since the trouble seemed to be exclusively mental. He gave her the name and number of a Docteur Leclerc, who specialized in disorders of the mind.

  


Evelyn had barely spoken to him since that first night; the lack of recognition in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. By an unspoken arrangement, they kept to their own sides of the curtain; Rick took his meals in the room, while Evelyn dined alone in the hotel restaurant. It was as though they were strangers again, formal and awkward whenever they happened to encounter one another. Sometimes he was disagreeable, quibbling over every tiny thing she asked of him until she was nearly ready to hit him in the head again. Then he'd try to be nice, but his efforts only made things worse, made it clear how little she meant to him. He was never polite to people he really cared for.

  


Docteur Leclerc, when he finally appeared, was a portly, balding fellow with enormous spectacles perched precariously at the very tip of his nose. Compared to his predecessor, his command of the English language was quite good, barring a tendency to use plural and singular rather indiscriminately. He was very gentle with Evelyn--who, by this time, was more bewildered and frustrated than ever. "I would like very much to see your husband, Madame O'Connell," he told her. "I have been advise of the particular of his case." He didn't add that he was quite skeptical; it sounded to him as though the young man might be regretting his rash decision to wed, and was trying to get out of it in an unscrupulous--albeit very creative--manner.

  


Evelyn nodded, and called Rick. He emerged, barefoot and shirtless; since the only thing on his side of the curtain was the bed, he'd been availing himself of it. God knew he couldn't sleep at night, not with her only a few feet away. His hair was tousled, nearly covering the circlet of bandages he'd been crowned with by the first doctor. He yawned and stretched, holding his arms up over his head. Misinterpreting Evelyn's wide-eyed expression, he made an inarticulate--yet somehow profane--noise, and retreated again.

  


"Monsieur O'Connell?" queried the doctor.

  


"Jus'sec." When he stepped out from behind the curtain a second time, he was fully dressed. "Sorry," he mumbled, glancing over at Evelyn, as if he were mindful of embarrassing her. The doctor made a note of this interesting behaviour. Rick turned to Leclerc. "_Vous êtes le nouveau médecin?_" he demanded gruffly.

  


"Yes, Monsieur, my name is--"

  


"_En français si vous préferez. Ça m'est égal._"¹

  


"I thought perhaps, out of courtesies to your... to the young lady..."

  


Rick looked to Evelyn again. She sat with her hands in her lap, legs crossed at the ankle, eyes now downcast. In spite of the sleepless nights she'd spent, she was looking enviably fresh in a sleeveless white linen dress. Her hair, in a simple braid, fell over her shoulder, and her heart-shaped face was framed by a halo of unruly curls. His stomach gave a funny little jump when she finally lifted her head and looked at him, and suddenly the dress was wrong, all wrong--it should be black, not white, and... he shook his head and blinked several times in succession, wondering where that had come from.

  


Suddenly acutely aware of the presence of the doctor, he turned to that worthy gentleman and abruptly announced, "I'm warning you right now: first time you try to stick anything down my throat, you're gonna find it up your--"

  


"Rick!" snapped Evelyn. He glared sullenly at her, but said nothing. "Docteur Leclerc is a psychiatrist," she added, more gently. "He's just going to speak with you."

  


Rick didn't seem particularly impressed by this assurance, but he followed the doctor behind the curtain. They spoke in low tones for what seemed an interminable length of time, and finally the doctor emerged alone. His eyes met Evelyn's, and he shook his head solemnly.

  


"I have read of such case," he told her, choosing his words carefully, "but these are the first I have ever seen." He placed a hand on the young bride's shoulder consolingly. She wasn't much older than his own daughters, and he found himself moved by her fortitude and strength of will. "There are chance that, given the time and the right circumstance, his memories will return on her own."

  


"But there--there's nothing you can do?"

  


"I would suggest for you to introduce him to familiar place and persons. Friend. Relative. You have such things, yes?"

  


She nodded slowly.

  


"I would also suggest, Madame, that you do not prevent your husband from leaving if he wishes so to do."

  


Evelyn looked stricken.

  


"It is possible that he will seek out that which might cause him to remember. _Vous devez permettre cela_."

  


"_D'accord_,"² she agreed, albeit unwillingly. Just as long as it didn't involve going back to Hamunaptra for a reunion with Imhotep...

  


Just then, the door was flung open. Evelyn sprang to her feet, a reprimand on her lips--the hotel staff _knew_ they were to knock before entering, she'd told them that very morning--when into the room tumbled her own dear brother, shadow-eyed and thoroughly rumpled, cradling his raggedy overnight bag under one arm.

  


"Jonathan!" cried Evelyn.

  


Jonathan dropped the bag and embraced his sister. "There, now. I said I'd come, and I have," he announced, rather redundantly. Evelyn, at a loss for words, simply hugged him so tightly she heard a distinct cracking noise. "There, now," he repeated mildly--the mildness possibly arising from lack of breath. "Steady on, old girl. Why don't we sit down for a spot of tea and you tell me all about it?" His presence, even his inane babbling, was reassuring in its blessed normalcy--proof that this whole horrid mess wasn't just a product of her own addled brain.

  


Rick, intrigued by all the commotion, stepped out from behind the curtain. If Evelyn weren't otherwise occupied at the time, she would have been pleased to note that Rick's response to seeing her in another's arms was not the reaction of a wholly indifferent man. In point of fact, he very nearly ripped the curtains down.

  


Jonathan spied him over Evelyn's shoulder. "Rick, old boy!" he called, swiftly extricating himself. "I say, you _are_ looking well--Evie, what exactly did you say the trouble was again?"

  


Rick eyed Jonathan suspiciously. Now, this one _did_ look familiar... he couldn't quite place where he'd seen him before.

  


Evelyn, seeing the spark of recognition in his eyes, clapped her hands excitedly. "Oh, Jon, thank heaven you've come!" she exclaimed, taking her brother by the arm and thrusting him at the patient. "D'you remember Jonathan, Rick?" She looked up at him pleadingly.

  


"Why wouldn't he remember--" Which was as far as Jonathan got, before a swift right hook from Rick sent him toppling over backwards.

  


Stepping briskly around her supine brother, Evelyn peered up into her husband's face and inquired, "Why--why did you do that?"

  


Rick cracked his knuckles. "He knows why."

  


"I do?" warbled Jonathan, struggling to gain his feet. "Er, perhaps you'd better help jog my memory, old man."

  


Both Evelyn and Rick cringed at his choice of words.

  


"You stole my... you know, my little box thing," Rick growled. "And then you hauled ass and I lost you in the crowd. I told you I'd get you."

  


"Oh, but I say, that's not cricket! Can a man be tried twice for the same crime? Evie, tell him--"

  


"Yeah, that's great, get a girl to fight your battles for you. C'mere, you little weasel--"

  


"Boys, please." Evelyn placed both hands on Rick's chest, leaned hard, and locked her arms--effectively stilling him, since he'd have had to knock her down otherwise. "Rick, you already hit Jonathan for stealing your... puzzle box... the first time we all met. As well you should have, I might add."

  


Rick was still inclined forward in an aggressive stance, one fist partly raised. "Uh-huh. And?"

  


"I am not going to move until you promise you aren't going to hit anyone," Evelyn informed him, giving him a bit of a shove. Not having expected such forcefulness from her, he actually fell back a pace.

  


"Fine." Rick let his arm fall. "I won't hit him."

  


"You swear?"

  


He grinned down at her. She was a tough little broad, he had to give her that. "Every damn day." Now, why did that sound so familiar?

  


Evelyn dropped her hands to her sides and regarded him thoughtfully; Rick, true to his word, didn't try to go after Jonathan again.

  


"Would someone mind telling me what the blue blazes is going on here?" demanded Jonathan, rubbing his jaw.

  


Turning to her brother, Evelyn explained, "Rick's hit his head rather hard and he... he doesn't remember."

  


Jonathan blanched beneath his year-round tan. "Doesn't remember meeting me?"

  


"Doesn't remember meeting either of us." Her pain and frustration were almost palpable.

  


"But how could he... and if he doesn't..." Jonathan's facile countenance went through a variety of reactions in mere moments, before the full implications of the situation finally settled in his tired brain. "Oh, Evie," he said softly, and placed a consoling hand on his sister's shoulder. She nodded solemnly, not trusting herself to speak.

  


Rick cracked his knuckles again, louder. He wanted to wring Jonathan's neck, and not necessarily just for picking his pocket.

  


The doctor, who had been a silent observer throughout the proceedings, spoke up now. "A breakthrough!" he announced, smiling. "We now know more than we did."

  


"We do?" asked Rick and Evelyn, in perfect unison. Their eyes met, and suddenly he found himself strangely captivated by the little strip of sunburn across her nose; without being able to say why, exactly, he wanted to touch it. Embarrassed to be caught staring, he looked away, but found himself drawn back to her gaze. She smiled--a crooked little smile, with her two top teeth peeking out just a tiny bit. He found himself smiling back, feeling his stomach tighten.

  


The doctor, meanwhile, was still talking, oblivious to the fact that only Jonathan was paying attention. "If Monsieur O'Connell can remember his encounter with you, monsieur," he concluded, "this means we know to which point his memory is still good."

  


Evelyn, who was listening on some level, jumped on this immediately. "Yes, yes, of course! Rick, you say the last thing you remember is doing a lot of drinking... that was probably the night you were arrested!"

  


"Arrested?"

  


"When we met you, old man, you were in the clink," supplied Jonathan amiably. "For desertion, I believe it was."

  


Rick nodded thoughtfully. It almost made sense... but maybe he just wanted it to make sense, because of what he was starting to feel for this girl. That thought made him more than a little nervous.

  


The doctor stood up. "I shall give you all time to get acquainted once more. Monsieur O'Connell, I wish you the best of luck. Madame, please send word to my office or telephone if there is any progress at all."

  


Evelyn nodded. "I will."

  


After the doctor had departed, Evelyn and Jonathan exchanged a series of indecipherable looks. Each was wondering how best to broach the topic of Hamunaptra, and what had taken place there, without sounding completely mad. Jonathan squeezed her hand comfortingly, and again, Rick entertained thoughts of violence.

  


"Please sit down," Evelyn suggested, looking from one to the other. "Both of you." All three of them took up chairs around the small dining table: Jonathan and Evelyn on one side, Rick on the other. "There are a few things we all need to discuss," she began. However, the next thing that came out of her mouth was not at all what she had meant to say. Looking at Rick, she demanded, "What happened to your bandages?"

  


Rick shrugged, infuriatingly deadpan. "Took 'em off."

  


"Now, that won't do, the doctor told you to keep those on. It's for your own good."

  


"They were too tight."

  


"They're supposed to be tight, that's to stop the swelling. Go and put them back on." She pointed in the direction of the curtain.

  


Rick stood up, but his posture made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere until he was good and ready. "Stop ordering me around like the goddamn Queen of Sheba!" he roared. 

  


"I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, damaged or not!" yelled Evelyn, before she could stop herself. _This_ was not the man she'd married. She'd had enough of him, and his rude manners, and his mercurial moods. She'd been more hurt by the past two days than anyone.

  


"Hey, I talked to your goddamn head doctor!" he continued, inserting the curse word deliberately. "And your other doctors, too. And you know what they all said? They said I'm fine. Just a little bump on the head. So either you're nuts, or I'm nuts, or you're trying to pull one over on me--" A devilishly simple plot occurred to him, and he nodded slowly. "Okay, yeah. I get it. The box, right? You opened it. You two are gonna tell me that the three of us went to Hamunaptra, right?"

  


"Yes!" exclaimed Jonathan, before Evelyn could shush him. "So you--"

  


"And let me guess--I was the only one of our happy little group who knew the way there?"

  


Jonathan nodded uncertainly.

  


"Rick, it isn't what it looks like..." Evelyn protested.

  


"No, I think it's exactly what it looks like. I think you two want me to take you out there to look for treasure. Only you and this so-called head doctor are gonna try and convince me that it's the only way to get my memory back. I'm telling you right now, sister, that ain't happening. I wouldn't go back there if you paid me."

  


"I wouldn't either," said Jonathan, and shuddered. "Bloody awful place, it can stay buried for all I--"

  


"Yeah, sure. You may be selling, but I ain't buying. What'd you do, pal, slip something into my drink? And then you send in a pretty girl in her underwear to convince me to--"

  


"How _dare_ you!" Evelyn rose out of her seat, face drained of colour. "I have done nothing but tried to help you. I have been understanding, and patient--"

  


Rick snorted derisively.

  


"If you don't want to be here--if this is really that much of a waste of your time--then perhaps you should just leave."

  


He folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe I should."

  


"Go on, then."

  


"Fine, I will." He turned and stalked off.

  


"Fine."

  


"Fine!" Each of them, it seemed, was equally determined to have the last word.

  


"_Fine!_"

  


"You bet your ass it's fine!" he yelled over his shoulder, charging out the door. After slamming it, so forcefully that the walls rattled, he had another one of those strange moments of _deja vu_, He looked down at his fingers, half-expecting them to be bruised. They weren't. He paused only a second, trying to shake her out of his head completely, before proceeding down the hall to the stairs.

  


~~~~

Translations:

  


1. "You're the new doctor?"

  


"Yes, Monsieur, my name is--"

  


"In French if you want, it's all the same to me."

  


2. "...You must allow this."

  


"All right."

  



	6. Tout Mon Amour

_Author's Notes: Tada! Hope it's been worth the wait._

  


6. _Tout Mon Amour_

  


  


"Girls," muttered Rick disgustedly to the guy beside him. "I tell ya. More trouble than they're damn well worth." The other man ignored him, staring straight ahead, and Rick figured maybe he didn't speak English. "_Les femmes, hein?_" he tried again.

  


The man grunted neutrally, and gestured for the bartender to fill his glass.

  


Rick hadn't wandered much further from the hotel than the nearest ramshackle watering-hole. He had an instinct that was nothing short of supernatural when it came to finding such places. It was a small establishment, tucked away in the back corner of a sandstone building which housed--of all things--a semi-legitimate surgical practice. The sort of doctor's office you might go to if you wanted a bullet removed quickly and quietly. The bar, which was open twenty-four hours a day, was obviously in need of new wallpaper, and possibly a liquor license.

  


This was his kind of company, Rick reflected, looking blearily around the room. Yes, indeed; grifters, sharks, pickpockets, lowlifes, confidence men, crooks of various descriptions... and not a woman in sight.

  


He slapped another bill down. Upon leaving the hotel, the first thing Rick had done was to open up his wallet and see how much running money he had. He'd been astounded to find himself considerably more well-heeled than he'd been the day before. Boy, those two must have had money to burn on this whole scheme, he reflected, downing another shot. He could live for quite a while on the amount of scratch they'd planted on him, just to add a little veracity to their story. And that girl, well, she was a piece of work. She'd had him completely fooled; if not about the whole marriage story, at least about her belief in it. And, damn it, he'd genuinely liked her. She was smart, and tough, and she had this way of lighting up a room with her smile... and he'd thought she'd liked him, too. She must have seen him coming a mile away.

  


He shook his head. "I'm a sucker for a pretty face," he remarked.

  


The guy at the next barstool got up to find a less chatty place to nurse his drink.

  


Besides the money, he'd also found a little black-and-white photo of her tucked in his wallet. Another plant, obviously. He took it out of his shirt pocket for about the millionth time that hour, and looked it over. Con or not, you couldn't deny that she was awfully cute. In the picture, she was standing with her back to a stone column, hat in one hand, book in the other. She wore a simple white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, the collar hanging open. The same playful breeze that tousled her hair had caught hold of the hem of her skirt, coaxing it slightly higher than it was intended to be worn, and treating the camera to a flash of stockings and white lace. The miniature Evelyn didn't seem to mind; if anything, she was teasing the camera just a little bit, playing at being demure, all the while knowing her slip was showing. Her hair and eyes stood out most of all, darkly luminous against the washed-out greys of the background and the whiteness of her face and bare, slender arms. She was squinting--the sun was in her eyes, looked like--but she was also grinning mischieviously, as though she and the photographer shared some private joke. For such a supposedly innocent girl, it was kind of a sexy snapshot.

  


After a moment, he found he couldn't look at the picture any more, and flipped it over. On the back, in an elegant hand, someone had written simply, _All my love, Evelyn_.

  


If it had been something flowery or poetic, he might have laughed and tossed the little photograph aside. But it was as though whoever had written this _knew_ him--knew his disdain for bathos and sentiment, was aware of the fact that emotional displays embarrassed him--and respected that enough to distill the inscription to a single, all-important statement of affection.

  


It was, for lack of a better word, creepy.

  


Rick put the picture back in his pocket. He didn't really want to hang onto it, but it didn't seem right to leave it in a bar, either. He'd have to tear it up. Or maybe burn it. _All my love._ He'd never known a single girl yet who'd said that, and meant it. It was just a con. And this one was no different from any of the others.

  


He was on his way to being pleasantly indifferent to the whole mess when he felt a clap on the back. "O'Connell!" bellowed a voice that could give a foghorn a run for its money. Rick turned around, and found himself face to face with someone he'd thought long gone.

  


"Marsten!" He gestured to the seat beside him. Drinking oneself into oblivion worked best as a team sport, after all. "What's it been, like... forever?"

  


"At least." Phillip Marsten eased onto the stool next to Rick. He was a short fellow of vaguely British extraction, stocky, with heavyset shoulders. What little hair he had left sprouted in odd brown tufts and hackles over the rocky landscape of his scalp, a human wasteland. His face, which had once been pretty decent, had been molded and mashed by time, dissipation, and one too many uppercuts, into the unmistakable countenance of a bruiser.

  


"Thought you were doing time," Rick remarked.

  


Marsten shrugged, and shot Rick a look that suggested it would be best not to pursue that line of questioning. "No profit in it."

  


"Gotcha." After the last time, Rick had sworn not to get mixed up with the likes of Marsten and his pals again. The last time, he'd been young, trusting, eager for acceptance--stupid, in other words. He'd agreed to act as the gang's lookout. They'd left him holding the bag when a bank job went wrong. He'd been lucky to get away with his skin. If it hadn't been for that guy with the airplane... But here he was, at a loose end. There was no harm in putting out a feeler or two. "So what's new?"

  


"Well, we got something doing. Might be right up your alley."

  


"Yeah?"

  


"Yeah. Practically found money."

  


"What's the catch?"

  


"Well, it's found in some bloke's pocket, o'course. We just need to get at it."

  


Rick shrugged. He knew that if he seemed too eager, Marsten was smart enough to clam up right there. He wasn't sure he wanted to get involved with those guys anyway. Unless Marsten had experienced a religious epiphany while in prison, he was just as likely to leave Rick hanging again if it suited him.

  


"Looks as though you've come into some found money yourself," Marsten remarked, assessing Rick's near-new outfit with an appraising look.

  


Rick shrugged again. He didn't feel like talking about how he'd nearly been conned--especially since the fact that he was privy the location of a city full of gold and jewels was something Philip Marsten did _not_ need to know. "Met a nice girl," he said finally. "Nice rich girl."

  


"Ahh." The older man nodded knowingly. "She, er, she i'n't going to pose a problem to us, now? If we were to invite you in on something?"

  


"Her? Nah." He waved his hand dismissively, trying to brush away the image that swam before his eyes. Her memory was as doggedly persistent as the woman herself; the more he tried not to think about her, the more clearly her face seemed to appear. _All my love, Evelyn._ He knocked back his drink, searing her away with liquid fire. His head throbbed, but he ignored it. "She's one of those types that insists on having a husband," he added, savouring the joke.

  


Marsten pounded him on the back, laughing. "That's my boy." He gestured to the bartender. "Drink for my mate here, eh?"

  


Rick nodded his thanks. A few more of these, and he could start getting on with his life.

  


  


  


_Tears on the honeymoon trip_, mused Jonathan, holding his sister close. _It simply won't do_.

  


Evelyn had never been one to do things the way other girls did, but really! Coshing the poor chap over the head, and then nagging and sniping at him until he stormed off in a huff? Rick couldn't have been expecting much in the line of compromise if he'd married Jonathan's adamantine sister, but she could at least have approached the matter with a modicum of tact and common sense. Feminine bloody _wiles_, for heaven's sake! She had them, and he'd seen her use them--why hadn't she employed them on her husband at the moment when they were most needed? She could have subdued him in seconds; all it would have taken was a few flutters of the eyelashes, perhaps a delicate touch on the arm to seal the deal. But no; she would rather quarrel with a man who made a bear with a thorn in its paw seem like an engaging dinner companion. She just _had_ to be right.

  


Of course, he knew better that to voice any of what he was thinking. Instead, he sought to soothe her, murmuring, "There now... chin up, old mum. We'll fix everything, you'll see."

  


Evelyn lifted her head to look at him, bleary-eyed. She gave a most unbecoming sniffle, and then demanded, "How can we possibly fix this?" It was a damned good question, one that Jonathan had been asking himself for the past twenty minutes or so.

  


"Well, we shall... we can, er... look, Evie," he said, employing his trusty handkerchief to pat her face dry, "between the two of us, there isn't a single puzzle we can't solve. I mean, we managed to beat a sodding mummy back into its grave! How much harder can this be?" _Funny_, he thought. _It sounded cheery enough in my head_...

  


"I just wish he'd _listen_ to me," she moaned, with another sniffle, this one culminating in a loud snort. Jonathan pressed the handkerchief into her hand. There were few things more objectionable, to his mind, than a sniffing, wet-nosed child--a classification which included his baby sister, married or no.

  


"Be reasonable, sis. Remember that day at the prison when you first met him? If he'd told you then that he was actually your long-lost husband, what would you have said?"

  


"That was different," she said austerely. "For one thing, he sorely needed a bath." She blew her nose emphatically, as if to punctuate this statement.

  


"Evie..."

  


"Oh, all right," she snapped. "Perhaps I could have been a bit nicer to him. But where does that get us? We still haven't the faintest bloody idea where he might be!"

  


Jonathan knew that Evelyn rarely cursed; in fact, she was always reminding him that people who swore usually did so because they were simply not bright enough to think of anything intelligent and insightful to say. And, brotherly instincts aside, he knew better than to tease her about it now.

  


"Well, if I know him, which I do--although, granted, not as well as some--he'll be out drowning his sorrows in some seedy bar."

  


A spark came into Evelyn's eyes, setting them ablaze. She stepped back and squared off opposite her brother, spine ramrod-straight, body taut. She looked as if she were spoiling for a fight. "I warn you now, Jonathan, if this is an excuse to--"

  


"My darling little sister, would I lie to you?" Before she could answer that, he added hastily, "At a time such as this?"

  


She took a deep, shaky breath, then nodded. "All right. We'll try this your way. Where do we start?"

  


"We? Er... look, old mum, why don't you let me handle this?"

  


The chill in Evelyn's look could have capped the pyramids with snow. "I am his _wife_," she reminded Jonathan tersely.

  


He canted his head and gave her a dubious look. "Ye-es... that's exactly it, isn't it? You'll try to drag him out by his ear, he won't go, you'll shout, he'll shout, you'll both refuse to back down, one of you will probably strike someone--knowing my luck, it'll be me--he'll run off again, and we'll all be back where we bloody well started!"

  


Evelyn huffed--which was tantamount to agreeing with Jonathan's argument, but not wanting to admit it.

  


"There are times when a fellow just needs his mates. I'll buy him a drink or two, we'll hash things out, and I'll bring him right back here as soon as he's calmed down. Scout's honour."

  


She shook her head, smiling through what few tears still remained. "You were never a Scout," she chided gently.

  


"Yes, but _my_ honour's not worth the paper it's printed on." He hugged her impulsively. "I'll do you proud, Evie, I promise... now, why don't you just run along and wash your face, then have a little drink and maybe a lie down? You look fagged."

  


"I am, I'm exhausted. I've hardly slept in days." She passed a hand over her eyes. "Jonathan, I'm so glad you're here," she murmured. "I've really been at my wits' end."

  


She held out the soiled handkerchief, but Jonathan waved it away. "Just you hang onto that, in case you need it again. It's no use to me anyhow, now you've been slobbering all over it."

  


Evelyn was startled by the sound of her own laughter. 

  


"See here, you little brat," continued Jonathan plaintively, "it isn't funny! What am I to do if I happen upon one of these pretty Provençales, and she's crying? Offer her my sleeve? We Englishmen already suffer from a rather spurious reputation in these parts, particularly in matters of romance. My actions could set back international relations by hundreds of years."

  


"Idiot. You can take mine if you like..." Evelyn turned up both her sleeves; ever the practical one, she was seldom to be found without a handkerchief on her person. However, not a single scrap of linen materialized. Well, it wasn't particularly surprising. She hadn't been herself lately, and a clean handkin had been the least of her worries when she was dressing that morning.

  


Jonathan exhaled derisively. "One of your delicate little embroidered linen frilly things? A pretty picture that would be. What sort of a ponce do you think I am?"

  


"The very best kind, of course," she said, tucking Jonathan's handkerchief into her sleeve with a grin.

  


"Hmph. Right, then. I'm off." He flashed her a bright smile. "Never fear, sis. You can depend on me." As always, he sounded as though he genuinely meant it this time.

  


He was out the door by the time her spirits flagged.

  


Left to her own devices, Evelyn wandered disconsolately around the suite. It seemed bigger now, and empty. She did as her brother had suggested; after stopping briefly in the bathroom to bathe her eyes and tidy up her face, she stretched out across the bed and tried to sleep.

  


The bed hadn't been made since Rick's nap that morning, and she burrowed into the covers, inhaling deeply, hoping to catch a trace of him... but it was as if he'd never been there. She felt as though she ought to cry, but she was simply too weary to work up the energy. Instead, she closed her eyes and hugged the pillow tight, feeling herself slip away into slumber.

  


She was not, ordinarily, a sound sleeper--but the events of the past few days had taken their toll, and Evelyn didn't even stir as a pair of hands rolled her onto her back. None too gently, these same hands slid underneath her and hoisted her up off the bed, her head lolling at an acute angle.

  


"Mmm," she murmured, only half-awake--and barely that. "...Rick?"

  


"Guess again, sweetheart," said a voice from above, and then Evelyn felt something being pressed over her nose and mouth. She tried to shout, coughed, and drew a breath--sickly sweet and burning. Her eyelids, already so heavy, seemed impossible to open now. She struggled, briefly, and then passed out of consciousness without ever seeing the face of her assailant.

  



	7. Cherchez la femme

_Author's notes: I hope you've missed me as much as I've missed all of you... it's good to be back. :)_

  


7._ Cherchez la femme_

  


  


Rick O'Connell may have been a fine hand when it came to finding seedy bars--but he had nothing on Jonathan Carnahan. Jonathan was a man who had caroused his way through a handful of countries across two continents, in a variety of languages, and always with the most interesting of companions. Jonathan's talent for sussing out debauchery of every description was matchless, and he, unlike his sister, did not confine himself to words he'd learned in school when parlaying with the locals. His was the French of the sidestreet, the pool hall, the dice game in the back room that nobody knew anything about. And when Jonathan, unshaven and in grotty travel clothes, inquired after _un branleur américain, probablement bourré_¹, no one gave his presence a second thought. They accepted this son of a privileged house and former Oxford fellow as a native of the gutter, one of their own.

  


He had been justified in preventing Evelyn from tagging along on this little errand; not only because of her gift for attracting trouble, or her propensity to lose her head when it came to a certain hot-blooded American of their mutual acquaintance, but because, in such settings as these, she would have been instantly and irrevocably identified as Other. Deliberately or no, Evelyn was most haughtily English when she was furthest away from home and hearth--as though she stood alone on behalf of her class and nationality, proud Britannia's solitary representative.

  


No self-respecting low-life would be seen associating with _that_.

  


Somewhere around the fifth bar, Jonathan had begun to get a bit irritated with his brother-in-law. True to his word, he'd taken his assigned duties seriously, and hadn't indulged himself even once--but Rick simply refused to surface. This latest bar was a dive, even by Jonathan's standards. Surly bartenders who spit-shined their glassware populated the pages of the lurid adventure novels he enjoyed, but it was rare to actually encounter such a character in the flabby, flea-bitten flesh.

  


And then, suddenly, the door to the men's room opened, and Rick spilled out--_spilled_ being the most appropriate verb to describe someone whose motor functions were suffering serious liquid impairment.

  


Jonathan wormed his way through a gaggle of unwashed bodies and arrived just in time to stop Rick from falling flat on his face. "Hallo, Rick, old chap," he greeted. He managed to sound remarkably cheerful, considering the circumstances--particularly the large, drunken circumstance currently propped up against his shoulder.

  


Rick's head swivelled, and a bleary gaze was briefly directed at Jonathan. "What the hell?" he demanded irritably, slurring the sentence into one brief, nearly indecipherable interrogative. "Who're you?"

  


"Besides being the man who just now saved you from becoming intimately acquainted with a rather suspect tile floor?"

  


"'Sides that."

  


"Quite frankly, my dear fellow, you are far too drunk to understand any explanation near to hand. And I'm feeling rather short on explanations just now."

  


Rick seemed to mull this statement over, then nodded affably. Jonathan experienced no small stirrings of _déjà vu_; after all, this was almost exactly the situation that had allowed him to pilfer Rick's pocket for the little puzzle box that had turned out to be the key to a lost world. Rick had been blind drunk, and Jonathan had volubly offered to help him to the men's room. It wasn't that he'd intended to steal from the burly American--more that the opportunity had presented itself. Jonathan was a man who made it his business never to let opportunity pass him by.

  


"Have you a place to sleep tonight, my good son?" asked Jonathan, maintaining his pleasant tone of voice with some difficulty. What he really wanted to do was berate the man for making his sister cry, and then drag him back to the hotel by his ear. However, even Jonathan, who was not always the best judge of a situation, was able to see that this would not be a prudent course of action.

  


"No, I... hey, don't I know you?"

  


"Er... I dare say not. I don't often travel to this part of the world."

  


Rick nodded again. "Okay." His eyelids were starting to droop--along with the rest of him. Despite Jonathan's best efforts, he sagged to his knees, then leaned forward and retched ominously. Jonathan swore in English, the bartender swore in French, and Rick, unaccountably, swore in Arabic. Jonathan squatted down, and managed to haul the larger man halfway to his feet before pausing to catch his breath. His poor, abused muscles were crying out in agony. _I'm getting too old for this sort of thing_, he realized, somewhat amused at the thought.

  


Rick wobbled forward again, and a slip of paper wafted out of his breast pocket and fluttered to the ground. One of the other barflies--a slender, rat-faced fellow--swooped in and grabbed it, on the off chance that it might be valuable. On realizing it was simply a photograph of some silly chit, he demanded, in an offensive drawl, "Who's the little slut, then?"

  


Somewhat wearily, Jonathan took the required umbrage at this remark: "I beg your pardon?" After all, it wasn't as though the fellow had insulted Evie in the flesh... still, brotherly duties and all that rot.

  


The barfly waved the photograph insolently. "This saucy little piece."

  


Just Jonathan's luck. Only one other Englishman in the whole filthy place, and he was a complete wank.

  


"Look, shut up. And give me that--" Jonathan moved to snatch it back, but the man held it easily out of arm's reach.

  


"She belong to you, then? Or is she for sale?"

  


Jonathan flushed bright red, right to his hairline and the tips of his ears. Now he was beginning to get just a tad aerated. "I say, man, you've got a lot of nerve! That's my sister!"

  


"Is she, now? Haven't I seen 'er dancing at the Camel Club, something in that line?" taunted Rat-Face, obviously feeling his beer muscles.

  


Jonathan had, by this time, reached the end of his rope. He was by no means a man given to brawling; his general strategy in a melee situation could best be described as "duck and cover". However, since arriving in this God-forsaken country, he'd put up with every indignity one could possibly imagine. He'd remained sober, chaste, and lawful, for what seemed to him to be a positively indecent interval. And he hadn't a single bloody thing to show for it. Now, here was this man, just begging for a sock in the teeth. Jonathan hesitated only a moment before obliging him with gusto.

  


What he hadn't counted on, however, was that Rat-face had friends. And the friends had muscles.

  


Rick, meanwhile, had slowly ambled back towards his seat at the bar. He ordered another drink, dimly aware of some kind of fracas ensuing behind him. Go figure. Some idiots just had to answer every question with their fists.

  


  


  


  


Jonathan was accustomed to waking up in unfamiliar places with a dry mouth and a sore head--so much so, in fact, that it wasn't until he managed to fully assimilate the sounds of several passers-by speaking French that it occurred to him to wonder where he was.

  


He sat up--then immediately wished he hadn't, as the steel drum band that seemed to have taken up residence in the back of his skull struck up a rousing rendition of the 1812 Overture. Bleary-eyed, he looked around at the stony beach, which, owing to the early hour and the inclement sky, was deserted apart from a few brave bathers. He groaned, feebly, and passed a hand over his face. His nose seemed to be considerably larger than he remembered it, and quite painful to the touch. If it didn't hurt quite so much to think, he might have a go at remembering how that happened... he ran his tongue--which had also swollen to twice its normal size--over his teeth, ensuring that they were all there. They were, and seemed to be in quite good condition, apart from giving the distinct impression that they were all wearing tiny fuzzy sweaters.

  


A trickle of blood made its merry way down to his upper lip, and he reached for his handkerchief, only to find it had disappeared. In tracing it back to where he'd seen it last--a process which caused considerable upset in the spongy mass that was once his head--he gradually remembered Evie's tears. And his thoroughly bolloxed errand of the previous evening. Not only had he not retrieved his sister's husband, but he'd let the trail go cold, and managed to get himself mashed to a pulp into the bargain. There wasn't a single bone in his body that didn't feel as though it had been given a thorough rattling, and a couple in his midsection protested rather adamantly whenever he tried to move.

  


He wobbled to his feet and made his way to the Promenade. It turned out that his instinct of the previous evening (which, in all likelihood, had been to dunk his head in the sea as a means of cooling the blaze of bruises) had not been far wrong; he was mere stumbling distance from the hotel. He stumbled accordingly, and was back in Evie's tidy little suite before too long.

  


It wasn't terribly surprising not to find her there at that hour of the morning; Evelyn was a creature of habit, and one of those habits involved being a disgustingly early riser. She was usually getting up just as Jonathan was falling into bed. What _was_ surprising, however, was the state of the room. Evie usually kept her things in such good order that "neat as a pin" was heartily understating the case. "Ship-shape and Bristol fashion" would have been more in her line. Now, however, chaos reigned among the various cases and trunks that she'd insisted on carting along with her. Books, boots, and bottles were strewn haphazardly about the place, along with skirts, stockings, and assorted lacy knickery-things. Thrown into the fray were a couple of patently male items, including a motley collection of ties and the better part of a shaving tackle.

  


Jonathan, whose poor, abused skull was palpitating in a most unpleasant manner, stared blankly at this scene for quite some time before it finally occurred to him that, just possibly, something might be terribly wrong.

  


  


  


Evelyn realized as soon as she woke that something was terribly wrong. Mind you, it wasn't the first time she'd awakened in a strange place, bound hand and foot; however, she'd rather hoped that the last time had also been the only time (outside, perhaps, of certain gestures of a playful nature between trusting married persons, which have no place whatsoever in this narrative). She tried to move, but she seemed to be tied quite securely to the hard wooden chair upon which she was seated. She tried to rise, but the chair was apparently bolted to the floor. As if further indignities were necessary, she was also gagged. Straining violently against her bonds, she tried to scream, but found herself muzzled most effectively by the wadded cloth that had been stuffed into her mouth. The best she could manage was a strange gurgling noise in the back of her throat.

  


"Careful, sweetheart," called someone--a male someone--outside of her range of vision. "Wouldn't want you to choke. Because then I don't get paid."

  


British, not French. A common sort, she surmised. What on earth could someone want with her? Unless... her eyes widened, then narrowed, as she thought this supposition through properly. She, Jonathan and Rick had sworn an oath of secrecy regarding their journey to the lost city of Hamunaptra. She had kept her word, and so had Rick. And surely even Jonathan couldn't possibly be so foolhardy... but of course he could. Especially if there were whiskey involved.

  


Evelyn struggled with renewed ardour, informing her captors--completely unintelligibly, of course--that she would _not_ stand for this sort of treatment, that she demanded to be released _immediately_--

  


She never even saw the hand that struck her. Assuming that it actually was a hand, and not a lump of lead or a solid block of stone. In any case, it took her a moment to blink the stars from her field of vision.

  


"Now, then," the voice continued cordially, as though they had been discussing what to have for afternoon tea. "Don't fuss. It'll all be over before too long. We've got a certain doctor coming, just for you. A doctor what specializes in gettin' stubborn young ladies to tell the truth. You'll tell us what we want to know, one way or t'other."

  


Evelyn uttered a wordless cry of protest, to the effect that she had no idea what they were talking about.

  


"And, in case that don't work, we left a little message for your husband. He'll spill the whole lot, if he ever 'spects to see you alive again..."

  


Evelyn managed to snort derisively. Rick would never submit to such a demand. Rick would tear the city apart before he'd give up looking for her. Rick....

  


Rick could barely remember her name.

  


Surely, though, Jonathan would help. Provided he'd returned from his errand. Provided he was even able to intercept the message her captors had left for Rick. Provided he wasn't slumped over a bar somewhere, or emptying some unsuspecting Frenchman's pockets. He probably hadn't even noticed she was missing, she thought, flushing with anger. Damn him, anyhow! In all likelihood, it was his careless blathering that had gotten her into this.

  


As if reading her thoughts, the voice added, rather maliciously, "And don't trouble your pretty little head about brother dear. He's been well took care of by one of our associates. Smashed his pointy little head like a ripe melon, or so I'm told, and left him to drown on a nice quiet stretch of beach. He won't give us no more trouble."

  


_Oh, no. No no no. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!_ Evelyn, once a firm disbeliever in curses, had since learned the hard way that you needed to be very careful about such things. She hadn't _really_ meant to damn Jonathan, of course. She took comfort in the remarkable way her brother had of escaping whatever seemed most certain--be it death, dishonour, or simply a devil of a hangover.

  


Besides, she thought, logic dawning like the bright morning sun, why should she believe anything this man told her? After all, he had the very obvious goal of getting information out of her by any means necessary. Of course he would use lies and taunts as a way of breaking her resolve. Ever the rational one, Evelyn decided she simply wouldn't believe anything she hadn't seen with her own eyes.

  


As hot tears pricked behind those same eyes, Evelyn couldn't believe that a few short days ago, she had been crying over a confounded grammar mistake in a restaurant. Once she had gotten out of this mess, she promised herself, she would never bother over such a silly thing again.

  


Provided she ever _did_ get out of this mess.

  


  


~~~~~~

an American wanker, probably pissed drunk


	8. Mal au tete

_Author's notes: I'm back! Does anyone even remember this? I guess we'll see. Sorry for the monumental delay in getting the next chapter out. Needless to say, it's kind of a long story. ;)_

8. _Mal au tête_

It was plainly a situation that demanded O'Connell's particular kind of help. Rick O'Connell was, often despite his better judgement, rather a heroic fellow when circumstances called for it. Jonathan, as loath as he was to admit it, was not the least bit heroically inclined. Sneaking, sidling, spying, wheedling... those things were his forte. That, and his head was confoundedly sore. He kept having dizzy spells, and he was devilishly sleepy. He was no doctor, of course, but even he could tell that the crown of his skull shouldn't have been quite so... pulpy.

He and O'Connell made a fine pair, he reflected ruefully, as he sat on the bed in his room, applying a spot of scotch to his scrapes—externally, rather than internally, for once. Infection being rampant in the Egyptian air, Jonathan had learned through years of experience that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure when it came to open cuts. He did this rather mechanically, simply because he didn't quite know what else to do. He'd peeked into the honeymoon suite and found it empty, but was still too much in shock from the beating he'd received to fully absorb the awful significance of the wanton destruction of his sister's things. Not to mention the small, empty, Evie-shaped furrow in the bedclothes. Perhaps she'd gone for a walk. There might have been some news of Rick. Just because she was gone, and the room was a shambles, didn't necessarily mean she'd been...

_Drugged_. The word flickered momentarily, a tiny spark in the murky recesses of Jonathan's dazed brain. It hovered there a moment, unmoored, and then gently settled into place. Of course. Jonathan had been carousing about Cairo with his brother-in-law enough times to know that the dirty great brute was quite capable of holding his liquour, and sensible enough to rid himself of it if he couldn't. O'Connell must have been heavily drugged when Jonathan had encountered him. That had been the reason for his strange placidity--not to mention his inability to walk a straight line from the loo to the bar. Follow that to its logical conclusion, and it was plain that Jonathan himself had been neatly (and, God help him, willingly!) dispatched so that whoever intended to have at the incapacitated O'Connell had a clear path to him.

Jonathan huffed, rather disgusted with the whole business. It just wasn't _sporting_ to drug a fellow--even one as bellicose as his brother-in-law. As for Jonathan himself, he couldn't have helped the plot more if he had bashed O'Connell on the head and delivered him personally into the hands of his adversaries. Who those adversaries might be, he couldn't precisely say...

...but now they had Evie, too.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Jonathan knew that this was the most likely of all possible explanations for his sister's absence. There was some hope, at least; if they had searched the room, it meant they were seeking _something_, and presumably would not want to kill his sister or her pugilist husband until they had obtained that _something_. After all, you didn't usually drug a bloke, especially one as large and resilient as O'Connell, unless you intended to take him alive. And if there was some rotter out there who wanted both the O'Connells, alive, it was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump, so to speak, to Hamunaptra.

The myth of the City of the Dead wasn't exactly common knowledge, but there were a fair number of wasters about who had little better to do than to amass fairy stories about treasure. Jonathan ought to know; he had been one such waster himself. And he had to admit that there were moments when he'd had a hard time keeping his mouth shut about the expedition he and his sister had planned, moments when he might have dropped some rather heavy-handed hints in some rather unsavoury venues. It was possible that whoever had Evie intended to use her to get Rick and Jonathan to tell all they knew—which Jonathan would, willingly, if it meant saving his sister's life.

He would have to go back into the suite, he reflected, and look for clues. He was no stranger to poking around in his sister's suitcases by any means, especially when he was short of cash, but this was different. He tried to recall what he knew about detective stories (_murder mysteries_, he thought with a shudder) and what the proper procedures were for investigating a disappearance. It didn't even occur to him to involve the police, especially since he didn't know what Evie's captors were after. He wondered whether he should take a pencil and paper with him, to mark where things lay. If only he had a camera... If he could figure out what they had taken, if anything, it might help. He decided that he would also enquire at the front desk about the message Evie had mentioned—the one she thought had come from him. Someone had telephoned the hotel on the night the O'Connells arrived... perhaps to check whether they were there?

Evie had told him that the reason Rick was outside in the first place was that she had been startled by the appearance of a peeping Tom at the window... could it be that someone had been watching the O'Connells, waiting for the ideal time to strike, and that Rick's awful accident had played right into their hands?

But no; Rick's loss of memory had come as something of a blessing in disguise in that respect, Jonathan reasoned. After all, if Evie wasn't worth much to him, threatening her life wouldn't be enough to make him talk. That was something, at least. And it was probably why the bastards, whoever they were, had grabbed Rick—they may not be able to use Evie to make him talk, but torturing him would make her open up readily enough.

If all this were true, then why was Jonathan still free? Well, perhaps they thought he was dead. And perhaps they weren't so very far wrong, he thought, inspecting himself as best he could in a nearby mirror. His head was, literally and figuratively, a bloody mess. And it hurt like the very devil, to boot. He stood up, finding purchase against the wall. It was plain that, before anything was to be done about this, he would need a change of clothes, a spot of tea, several layers of bandages, a good dose of courage, and about a case of aspirin.

He wondered if Lord Peter Wimsey ever had days like this.

Rick wondered if there'd ever been a time when he didn't have days like this--waking on a cold floor, with a dry mouth and a pounding head. It had been happening way too often lately, that was for sure. He sat up, which was probably a bad idea, as the intensity and frequency of the pounding suddenly increased dramatically. He hadn't felt this whipped since his days in the Cairo prison, when Hamid, that big lout with the festering eye, had--

Wait, prison?

He'd never been in prison. Jail, sure, but never _prison_, and certainly never in Cairo.

He shook his head to clear it--an ultimately futile maneuver, as the room, which had been rickety to start with, began to spin around him. He groaned, and dropped back onto the floor. The cool tile felt good against his knotted back and aching head. If he'd never been in prison, how was he able to remember it so clearly? The sights, and sounds, and--worse still--the _smells_ of that wretched place enveloped him suddenly, almost palpably. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine...

_Well, I guess she's not a total loss._

Wait, what?

Was he losing his mind? Or getting it back?

He opened one eye, slowly, tentatively. It was far too bright in the little room. His surroundings seemed vaguely familiar, but dammit, there wasn't a single thing around that didn't seem like he'd had contact with it at some point. His head was completely and utterly fucked—he couldn't tell anymore what was real. Strangely, the only part of the puzzle that seemed genuine was Evelyn, and hers was the most preposterous claim of all.

Finally, it came to him—he was in the bathroom of the honeymoon suite, where they had met. Well, not where they had _first_ met, if her story was to be believed, but it was the only meeting he remembered. He grinned, despite himself, remembering how fetching she'd looked in that little slip. It had seemed like things were about to get really interesting for a second there, before he had to go opening his big mouth and ruining it. He noted, for future reference, that it is never a good idea to ask a lady to remind you what her name is once you've got her down to her underclothes. It doesn't matter what her name is. Just go with the flow.

Now, if only he could remember... well, anything, really, but in terms of immediacy, it would be nice to know exactly what he was doing here, yet again. He closed his eyes for a second, then, making a herculean effort, managed to heave himself to a sitting position, then wobbled to his feet. He had a few slurps of water from the faucet, which made him feel a bit better, even if it didn't solve the problem of what the hell he was supposed to do next. He could hear someone moving around in the next room—the little woman, he supposed, making a face in the mirror. It took him a second to realize that something wasn't quite right about his face, and another second to realize that the red smears weren't on his face, but on the mirror itself. The smears gradually resolved themselves into words, although he still didn't know what the hell they were supposed to mean...

"Who's in there?" called a voice from the outer room—a male voice.

"Depends," Rick shot back. "Who's out there?"

"I'm armed!" yelled the other guy.

"So am I," bluffed Rick, looking around for something he could use as a weapon. He grabbed the hairbrush, then tossed it aside—who could do serious damage with that?

There was a pause, and then: "Wait... O'Connell?"

"Who wants to know?" Rick demanded, still in pissing contest mode.

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

The bathroom door was yanked open to reveal Evelyn's weaselly brother, his head so swathed in bandages that he looked like a snowball on a stick. What was his name again? Rick racked his brain, trying to recall.

As if reading his mind, the other man prompted, "It's Jonathan. Evie's brother?"

"I know, I'm not an idiot," Rick growled.

Jonathan chose to take the high road. "What are you doing here?"

Rick lowered his guard. He had a feeling that he could trust this guy, although he couldn't say why. Maybe because, underneath the bandages, he looked the way Rick felt—like he'd been on the losing end of a struggle with the proverbial ton of bricks. "Damned if I know." He shrugged. "I was at a bar... an old buddy of mine turned up... I usually hold my drink a little better than this."

"I know," Jonathan replied. "I rather thought someone had slipped you something."

"You were there?" Why should he be surprised? His memory was like Swiss cheese these days. He just wished that one day he could wake up back at his flop in Cairo and have forgotten all of this.

Jonathan nodded. "But why would they bring you back here? Unless..."

"What?"

"Unless they already had what they needed. Evie's been taken," he blurted, then looked pained, as though saying out loud had only just made it real. "I came back here earlier and she was gone. The room was a shambles—still is, actually."

Rick broke out in a cold sweat, then sternly reminded himself that there was no cause for it. For all he knew, this was phase two of the scam they were running. He really was losing his edge if he was going to let these two English shysters manipulate him with such obvious dramatics. "I guess that explains this," he said, carefully neutral, pointing to the writing on the bathroom mirror. He stepped aside to allow Jonathan a better look, then stood back as the smaller man retched into the sink. It was pretty obvious that he hadn't had much to eat in the past twenty-four hours: almost nothing came up, and after a few dry heaves, he stopped, swore, steadied himself, and asked, "What are we to do?"

Rick touched the surface of the mirror, his head spinning. He had no idea what any of this meant, or what his part ought to be in all of it. He didn't know who these people were, or what his relationship was to them, if any. He only knew that if this was for real... if someone really did hurt that girl, if she was completely innocent in all of this and someone had taken her to get to him... there would be hell to pay. "I guess we do what it says," he said, reading the inscription for about the tenth time:

_wait for the call_

_or find out what it feels like_

_to lose a loved one forever_

Evelyn had no idea how long she'd been there—she only knew that it felt like forever. Alone in the darkness, minutes bled into hours, and the hours seemed to stretch out before her in an endless parade. She drifted into an uneasy sleep occasionally, awakened by the tiniest of noises. There was something skittering around the corners of the room, but whether it was a rat or some form of insect, she couldn't quite determine. Truth be told, she didn't much care, considering the larger matters at hand. Namely, that she was about to be tortured and possibly killed because she would refuse to give up her secret.

When they had returned from Hamunaptra, she, Jonathan and Rick had held a solemn meeting, to discuss what they were to do if confronted by individuals determined to get at the truth of Hamunaptra. There were bound to be a few, Evelyn had reasoned, although Jonathan and Rick both felt she was overreacting. The three of them had absolutely no idea whether it was possible to raise Imhotep from his resting place a second time, and none of them had any interest in finding out. Evelyn had suggested a pact that none of them would reveal the location of the lost city, even if put in a situation that meant harm might come to one of the others.

The one who had objected to this plan of action the most was Rick. Evelyn had been certain that he would take her side—which, in retrospect, was an obvious mistake. He was still incapable of thinking clearly where Evelyn's safety was concerned; he kept expecting spirits and sprites to emerge from the woodwork and seize her away from him.

"The mummy's dead," he'd insisted. "Gold, jewels—that stuff's not worth our lives. Those desert guys—the Med-jai—it's their job to die protecting the city, not ours." He'd used the word 'our', but he was plainly speaking directly to Evie, who blushed hotly under the intensity of his gaze.

"Now that we know," she'd argued, "it's our secret as much as anyone's, and we ought to keep it safe." She couldn't help but feel a certain amount of obligation to Ardeth Bay and his people for their assistance, especially since he had been instrumental in her own rescue. "If it were up to me—"

"Except that it has been up to you so far, and all you've done is damn near get yourself killed!"

"Yes, that's right, all pile on Evelyn, shall we? I wasn't the only one who disregarded warnings, you know. The Americans—"

"May they rest in peace," Jonathan interjected hastily.

"If you hadn't been so stubborn—" insisted Rick.

Evelyn's blood was up now. "I, stubborn?"

A light snapped on, abruptly derailing Evelyn's train of thought. She jerked awake, only then realizing that she had been... asleep? But no, she distinctly felt as though she had just been speaking. Shouting, in point of fact. Her mouth was still open.

She noticed that she was in quite a different room than the one she remembered. It was small, clean, and brightly lit, although of course there were no windows. There were tools, medical instruments, and hypodermic needles laid out on a table just out of her reach. She was no longer gagged, and she seemed to have switched to a more comfortable chair, one that supported her feet but also kept her arms firmly pinned to her sides.

What on earth had she just been saying?

A man in a white coat stepped into view. It appeared that the doctor, the truth extraction specialist, had already begun his work. He turned around, and Evelyn gasped. She hadn't been quite certain what she expected, but it definitely wasn't this.


End file.
